Let me back up for a minute.
3:30 a.m. My husband woke me up because he heard a banging outside. Rather than lay there and wonder, I pulled on my boots, demanded a flashlight and went to investigate. Let me paint this picture in full: me, in a little black tank top and flowered pajama pants with brown Uggs, stomping up my long driveway with a giant flashlight and a chip on my shoulder . . . I found nothing (we were concerned that the delinquents were back destroying mailboxes), no one, no source . . . probably a good thing. Anyway, back down the driveway and into bed I went.
Then, minutes later, there was a thud in the living room. Was it the delinquents? No. Was it a burgler? No.
It was the dog. Rolling off the couch. And falling behind it.
Stupid dog. And I mean that in the nicest possible way.
I quickly snapped the above photo before Shawn rescued him.