Two days after our house fire, my family moved into my in-laws’ cabin, located twenty miles outside of town. While my husband, seventeen-year-old son, our two dogs and I settled into our new, temporary home, the restoration crew worked in a frenzy back at ground zero. Removing all our belongings, ripping out every ceiling from each room (plus, some of the floors), tearing our kitchen down to the studs, as well as dealing with anything else that was destroyed.
Our lives had been turned upside down. Traumatic would be an understatement.
Soon after, we noticed our yellow lab, Gypsy, was acting strange, but we just thought she and Nick the pug were adjusting to all the changes.
Wrong.
We hadn’t been there 48 hours when we realized …
It was a regular Friday afternoon — August 25, 2017, to be exact. My family had enjoyed a great summer together and was returning to a more scheduled routine with the kids back in school (my daughter, away in college and my son, in his senior year in high school). Every Friday afternoon, my husband treats himself to a tennis workout, so he was there.
Recently, I had an epiphany of sorts. It wasn’t a major AHA moment. There was no burning bush, no light bulb flashed through my mind like in the cartoons (bummer).
One of my college roommates once informed me that after 9 p.m., I became an inoperable wench.