"He's fine." Is the refrain I constantly heard today. I felt so bad about taking Kismet out and then crating him again so I could go to work that I felt physically sick to my stomach for the duration of the morning. I know he's fine. He's in his safe place with his toys and water, with his brand new Kong stuffed full of organic, good for you with flaxseed peanut butter that his mommy can't afford to feed herself.
But I still feel stressed and worried and guilty. When I came home we went for a long walk, then he had a bath and ran around the house like a crazy person, and now he's cheerfully chewing his frisbee to bits.
He's such a good dog. I just hope he doesn't hate me for keeping him in an apartment and relying on strangers to take care of him while I work late and gallivant around with a musket--which are so scary!!!
woops. That was kizwiz Ó WITH A PAW ON THE....caps lock key. snort. damme dog.
Okay. This has to get easier, right? The--for me, I mean. Someday I won't feel like a horrible person for leaving him alone, right?