Monday, January 7, 2013

Ground Hog Day, or perhaps, Oh Crap, Not Again!!

Last summer when we moved (and thus drove 2 vehicles for 2 days) from Pittsburgh to Florida, we ended up staying at a motel that I referred to as The Roach Motel, a term that we used for our more sensitive friends and family. For our really good and more understanding friends, we simply called it the Crackhead Motel.

I fear we may now be staying at either one's close cousin.

This morning after loading up the vehicle with our luggage, groceries, and Wilbur, we made the short jaunt to our new digs for the next four days while our Knotty Cat gets her bottom cleaned. Since Wilbur didn't recognize our new route (and probably thought there wouldn't be a break for a few more hours), he settled down and went right to sleep. And let me tell you that's the extreme opposite of what I have to put up with when we make our usual four mile ride to the dog park, a route the little stinker now knows all too well. And even though the park is only a few minutes away, it means I have to endure the entire trip with a screaming, snorting Pit Bull who fully anticipates playing with his group of extensive friends.

Whether they like it or not.

Wilbur snoozes with our orange juice and his all time favorite, a can of whipped creme (all our other perishables were shoved into the refrigerator at Hans' workplace).

Poor, poor Wilbur. I swear it's pure Pit Bull abuse. Imagine being shut up in a motel room with only a king size bed and a TV for entertainment (along with a full food and water dish).

This is the polite picture.


Even with a king size bed, it portrays how very needy Wilbur truly is.


The not so polite picture I absolutely refuse to ever have published is the one (thanks to many of the hot flashes I'll endure tonight) where I have both my legs outside the covers and straddled on either side of Wilbur. It gives the impression that I'm giving birth to a dog while blogging.


But anyway, I'd no sooner dropped Hans off at work this morning and pulled up to our new and temporary home, I noticed those pesky police cruisers once again parked along the perimiter of our building.


And I'm not sure why, but I really didn't feel any safer to find upon arriving back at our temporary home after taking Wilbur to the park and picking up Hans, to find that a homicide detective had stuck a business card in the key slot of our door.


Not quite the same thing as someone promising quick pizza delivery.


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