Dear Tom.
I am sorry.
I am sorry about the nail gun that terrifies you.
I am sorry about the sander that makes your three little legs shiver.
I am sorry about the pit bull (mix) that has taken up residence in our house the last couple weeks,
confining you to my arms or the "other" room.
I am sorry that you haven't been able to find your water bowl because it's in a different place every 20 minutes.
I am sorry that your intake of biscuits is four to ten times your intake of actual food.
Wait. You are fine with that. I take that sorry back.
But I am sorry that sometimes you have mattresses falling on you. I am glad it was only twice.
I am sorry that you seem to always walk into the wrong room to go to sleep every night.
I am sorry about that white paint on the top of your head.
I am sorry that when I tried to get it out I put more paint in.
I am sorry that you have to go to the bathroom on wood scraps and sawdust outside.
I am sorry that if you want to be in the same room as us you have to lay on old insulation or burlap sacks.
I am sorry that I told you that tupperware storage was a crib.
I love you.
Love,
your mom, (you lucky dog.)
Leanne
