Small Stone 7:
It took forever to find the foil cutter, tucked behind the drying rack, frustration mounting with every dead end, only to be topped by not being able to find the wine opener. The bottle sits, unopened, taunting me from the kitchen counter.
Small Stone 8:
He only does it for me; not his daddy. When I come home, Bourbon spins in circles and “donut” ups, waiting for me to pay attention to him, to pet him, to pat his head, to scratch his back. For his daddy, he just races to the back door and dances to be let out and do his business.