Faith & Family
{Because my parents dearly covet their privacy, I’ll preface by assuring them—two avid readers of their daughter’s column— that I took every effort to conceal personal information and identities in the following article. No, Mom, I did not reveal anything incriminating, like that time you walked into Walmart dressed like an orangutan and demanded all the bananas.} (By the way, that never actually happened.)
It’s become a general understanding that I’m my parents’ designated pet-sitter any time they go out of town. I live only ten minutes away, so it isn’t that big of a deal for me to periodically stop by and tend to Old Yeller and Lassie. (No, those aren’t the real names of their dogs.)
Recently, I was tasked with completing this particular undertaking for a whole week. Seven days of making sure Pongo and Perdita had plenty of Kibbles ‘N Bits. (No, still not their pooches’ real names. Also, not actually the brand of dog food my parents buy.)
But it isn’t this daily feeding of their goldfish while they were busy surfing in Hawaii (they don’t actually have goldfish, nor did they go to Hawaii or suddenly learn how to surf) that I am here to tell you about.
