I've applied for more jobs this week. All of the positions are apply-online deals, so I receive an email that says my application has been received and the hiring team will contact me for an interview
if . . . whatever.
This job hunting business is a real time suck, but I don't want to ignore all of my best friends so I have a Friday
for you. I first published this post on June 14, 2010. It's had 65 page views.
It was my first full summer in Florida, and I took in a foster dog who had cancer. I named her Robin. She wasn't with us very long, but this post describes what happened as Robin took over my life and my bed.
Infinities of love,
Poor, pitiful little Robin who is dying of cancer started out as a cuddler in my bed.
Poor, pitiful little dog, I thought. She is so starved for affection and attention. I was simply thrilled to give her the love she deserves.
But cuddling has turned into a turf war; that is, who owns the bed?
Before I can get in the bed at night, Robin hops in and settles down smack dab in the middle. I have to push and shove her as best I can so I can join her in bed. For a poor, pitiful cancer stricken dog, she is mighty heavy and strong when she plants herself in her desired spot.
Last night, I barely got into the bed, and when I did, I was allowed only enough of the sheet to cover half of myself. Robin was on top of the middle of the sheet and would not allow me to pull more onto myself.
I awoke frequently during the night, finding myself in danger of being pushed out of the bed. Robin, I said, You really must let Mommy share the bed and get some sleep.
I was exhausted this morning because I spent the night fighting for a spot in what used to be my bed.
So the question is: Who owns the bed?
The answer is simple: Robin.