It has taken me four years of careful tending to turn that flower pot from something that looked like a piece of crap I got at Wal-Mart for $3.99 into an object that I fondly told myself looked like a fine aged piece of Tuscan terra cotta. You can imagine the pardonable pride with which I planted that beautiful geranium, which will have fabulous pink blossoms when it blooms, and then displayed it on my front porch.
Four years of nurturing, developing that chalky and be-mossed exterior. FOUR YEARS.
It took Zuzu exactly thirty seconds to shoot out the front door like a rocket and get her leash wrapped around the little table the pot was sitting on, sending the whole kit and kaboodle crashing down the steps, table, geranium and pot flying every which way. Actually, my pot flew in about fifty different ways and low and fervent was the vulgar language emanating from my ladylike lips as I picked up the pieces and tossed them in the bin.
I kind of wanted to toss Zuzu in there, too, but we already spent that money on her shots.
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