You thought you were going to slip by me this year, didn't you old man?

Well, wrong you are. You can't just check out on the same day that I checked in and not expect me to remember. Besides you old fool, I love you. Still. 

me   

Baker Wants to Know...

About the Trip. 

About California. 

About the Dog Beach.

I'm guessing Bobo spilled the beans. What beans he had to spill. 

No more asking to go outside at bedtime. 

Baker's waiting.



For a story.

Waiting...

Bobo was promised a day at the Dog Beach while we're in California. He's very, very excited.

The thing is, Bobo has no idea what a Dog Beach is, a fact that sank in over the course of about three days, and has since required that we (by 'we' I mean I), explain to him, every night, about waves and sand and seagulls. About the smell of salt air, and seashells, and seaweed and how very small one feels on the Ocean's shore. Of course I must also name as many creatures as I know that call the water home, and describe, in detail, each dog  that might be there when we arrive, and oh, tell me again daddy about how absolutely no cats are allowed at any time.

He's such a country dog.

Apparently we have bears. Three of them. (They travel like that, you know, in threes). Real bears. Not the kind that I imaginate, (or enigmate). The kind of bears that helicopters come looking for. Honey-loving bears. 

Do I even need mention how badly I'd like to see one, or all of this clan, come strolling across my farm? 

Oh my.

Cross our fingers everyone.

    

Fist bumping and 'killing it'.

Other than that, it's Home Sweet Home.