After the BBQ

We knew the evening was over when Sherbert (sitting on Dan’s lap) rested her head with their bloodshot eyes on the patio table, and proceeded to drift towards la-la-land. Maybe it was the snuffling for every thread of corn silk and potato chip ruffle that fell to the cement floor that did her in. Maybe it was the overwhelming scent of sausage juice being dripped on her head as the grillmaster worked his magic. Maybe it was the small children holding their plates of food so close, yet so far, from her voracious mouth.

It certainly wasn’t the wiener dog, whose house Sherbert was invading. Sherbert barely offered a sniff in the little dog’s direction…except to eat half of the other dog’s bowl of food.
And she was bolstered throughout the night by other means: more bits of bun then I care to imagine, minute-long hugs from one of the little boys, and a million offerings to carry Sherbert wherever she wished to go.

But either way Sherbert returned from the BBQ exhausted and somehow limping. She fell into her mushroom bed without even deigning to beg for a ride up to the real bed. And that’s where these pictures were taken at Noon the following day…visions of chicken apple sausages dancing in her head.

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