There’s an old saying “I would rather sleep with a wet dog than a guilty conscience”; last night, dad got both. Mom decided that Max and I needed a spa day, so dad dutifully trudged to the shower to fulfill his destiny as beautician/masseuse/cosmetician. The time it takes a dog to dry is directly proportionate to the lateness of the hour, so, last night, the bed retained a slightly swamp-like atmosphere.
Mom wisely relocated to the west wing of the Casa del Whackos.
Some mentioned on this blog that dad and I must be getting “royalties” whenever another site picks up my story, then litters it with ads; dad responded somewhat peevishly with “not a dime!”. They quickly set him straight with the reminder that this story is not about profit, it’s all about the story about the crates that we all inhabit at one time or another.
And they are right.
Although we appreciate it when someone else puts my story out there, we find it a bit off putting when they chop it up with questionable advertising in an attempt to make a shekel or three. Dad and Gary have considered this many times, but in the end, always err on the side of caution and leave the banners and misdirects to the other guys.
It reminds me of the passage when Jesus said of the Pharisees, “verily, they have their reward”. What would I choose, to profit financially from the story by telling it once, or to profit spiritually from the story by living it daily?
That’s a no-brainer to this old girl.
Take today for instance: rainy Monday in Arkansas, most are stressing about the start of another work week, but not me! Mom is making coffee, Max and Mia are cavorting at the foot of the bed, Bultaco has yet to emerge from the Cavern of the Covers, and me? I’m where I should be, sprawled out on dad, obtusely oblivious to the fact that he too must eventually rise and shine.
It’s great to be the Queen!