So my maternal grandmother (dead now these twenty years and more) is visiting with her dog--essentially a sausage with a head and tail--to whom she has apparently, and inexplicably, fed a bottle of baby formula. The formula and the dog disagree, and I follow footprints of doggie vomit all the way up the stairs.
They lead into my sister's room.
"Ha!" I say to myself. "She can deal with it. I'm going to bed!"
And then I go into my own room, where I find that the dog, clearly under the influence of Jackson Pollack, has redecorated my walls. And my carpet. And my bed.
My sister is attempting to clean it, without much luck.
"See ya," she says. "I've gotta pack up and go."
I look out my window to see that the street is filling up with parked cars, especially on the side reserved for tourists.
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