In the middle of a Wall Street crash,
Honey, my daughter’s German Shepherd,
vomits on the kitchen floor.
My granddaughter screams,
“I’m not cleaning that up!”
I scream back, “I’m not either!”
and we die laughing.

So we sit around for an hour,
avoiding the dog vomit,
which looks like slimy pizza,
and discuss what we should do.
Then we discuss at length
who should do it.

Finally she grabs a roll of paper towels,
unravels all of it on top of the mess,
and with one broad sweep
scoops it up.

My granddaughter is a hero.
And it’s a damn good thing.

 

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