Dog Mom 

 
She selects another postcard. A Yorkie. Not Holly. But close enough. “Dear Elaine,” she writes. “This magazine. The current issue. This dog magazine. There’s another article. Fractured teeth. That’s what it’s about. A major dental problem. It is. Mostly bones. That’s the culprit. Chewing on them. But also antlers, cow hooves, yak chews. Seriously? Is this news? I think not. I mean. Really. Come on. Think about it. No way I’d stick something like that in my mouth. Okay. I’m not a dog. But still, but still. Just saying. And there’s more. Like this. Like nylon bones. And ice. And tennis balls. Even those. Can you imagine? They all fracture teeth. They do. All of them. All. Or that’s what this magazine says. Glad I give Holly dental bones. You know. Those crunchy green things. Look like toothbrushes. They do. In the green package. Yeah. Those. Glad I’m doing something right. Not that I know what I’m doing. I don’t. Not a clue. Clueless. That’s me. I mean. Holly is my first. You know. Dog. But at least I’m trying, trying. To be a good dog mom. I am. I swear. Trying. Really. I am.”