Praying To Dog

Tonight is Rob's dad's company's annual holiday party, and I'm very excited to go, simply because I get to wear heels. We're even going in a LIMO! I know, I sound backwoods.

I need to nap first, but before I do, I need to get to Long Island, alone, with the two dogs. Not fun. Matty is fine, but Leeloo is a pukehead in the car. Her Dramamine only sometimes works. The rest of the time, we have to pull over with cars whizzing past us, and I have to clean up the vomit one-handed while I use the other to constantly shove Matty backwards, away from the door. He sees the open door and, beyond it, the grass of the side of the highway, and enthusiastically attempts, multiple times, to launch himself towards Outside. Stupid dog. One time, in Queens, he managed to get out; we were dropping Rob's grandma off at her apartment. I had a heart-attack chasing him while he was merrily trotting across FOUR LANES OF TRAFFIC to the sidewalk across the busy street; cars came screeching to a halt while he blindly walked in front of them. Now that we have Leeloo, I know she would be right behind him... she goes wherever he does. Having two people in the car helps; one can reach back and hold Matty, so it's less of a hassle. But today, I'm flying solo. I've done it before, but I'm not generally happy about it.

Dear small dog: please don't throw up on this trip. I just can't deal right now.