Mocha

This is Mocha. I have extremely long toenails and can type. (Take that, Martha!)

I miss the teenager. This morning, I missed him sooooo much that after BigMan left, I threw up in the entry and in the bathroom. BigLady doesn't like it when I throw up on the carpet, so I was careful to aim for noncarpeted areas. Then I went back to bed.

It was a little awkward when BigLady realized I had puked. She thought it was bubbles on the bath rug (OK, I was predominately on the tile) and drug her foot through it... when it didn't respond like bubbles she wiped at it with some toilet paper, then saw some strands of grass and realized what it was. Then she hopped back into the shower and rinsed off her foot. Odd.

And then BigLady ran all over, getting dressed and cleaning up my puke and yelling at LittleLady to feed me and give me water. I thought she was going to forget to take me out, but at the very last second she yelled for me. I was hoping to sneak into the car but she would have none of that. I was too nervous to pee, and before you know it I was back in the house, all alone, as the car sped out of the driveway.

Oh Teenager. When you are here my life is much less stressful. None of this rush rush rush Mocha, go to the bathroom NOW Mocha, no treat for you Mocha... sheesh. BigLady was so paranoid after my puking incident that she closed all the doors and the only place I could sleep was the couch, which is OK but nothing like your smelly bed upstairs. How am I going to take over his room by secretly pooping all over if she keeps preventing me from getting upstairs?

Well, I must go now. We're going to work with the BigMan tomorrow, then up to Grand Marais.