It may be the fact that I have a baby now... and it might be just one more thing that I can blame on my raging hormones... but I find myself, on a very regular basis, wanting to kill my dog. Like, MURDER-him-with-my-bare-hands kill him. Maybe this makes me a horrible person. It just never fails that the barking and the loud, growl-inducing-humping happen right when Evie has gone to sleep. RIGHT when I was GOING to take a nap. And, God, there are only so many times that you can pick poop up off of the floor with a smile on your face after you had just let him out for the sole purpose of deficating IN THE YARD!
But I haven't killed him yet. When the rage threatens to overtake me I look back at this picture: taken a couple of days after I brought Bearsy home (completely against my husband's wishes)...that was exactly three years ago. Life has a way of moving much too quickly, but still passing very slow. The first person to be able to explain this phenomena will, no doubt, win a Nobel Peace Prize.
But this picture, it does the trick. It has saved Bear's life on a number of occasions.