The Dog-in-Law

My sister-in-law is in the process of moving from Virginia to Utah and is visiting family along the way.

The kids are usually this side of incoherent with excitement whenever we have visitors, but although they’re fond of their Aunt—and argue loudly about whom she should sit next to at the table and in the car—they’ve gone completely bonker-nuts over their new cousin:

This is Jada—or Jada Mae, if we’re being formal. She’s part Greater Swiss Mountain Dog, part Clydesdale.

She’s not entirely sure about all this driving and staying in strange places without yards where she has to stay in a small room next to an octogenerian who isn’t really down with inside animals.  But she’s such a sweet pup that all she’s done in protest is “Baroo” at passing suburban wildlife and blow her coat like it’s August.

‘m not kidding—we may be able to build the kids another dog with the fur.  Which is pretty much the only way they’re getting one,* unless I can talk my sister-in-law into living here and walking both dogs for bed and board.

I tried, for the sake of the children, but she has her sights set on Salt Lake City, so it’s the vacuum for the puppy piles instead of the glue stick.

And how does Mr. Toby Cat feel about this canine invader, whom he hasn’t seen but has darn well heard and smelled?


Pretty much says it all, right there.

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*Before all of you try to convince me we really, really need one . . . We really, really don’t.  Or rather, a dog doesn’t need us.  We don’t have a yard or the time for walks and there’s nothing sadder than a lonely dog whose people are around and awake for two or three hours a day, tops.