Son Thom and I got to his baseball game this morning 40 minutes late. We'd called ahead to say he'd be late. It's a small-town league, and Thom's team is the "minors" comprised mostly of 5th-graders like Thom. Our game was 30 miles up the road from Comfort in Ingram, Texas.
Thom was anxious because Coach Lee is always stern, and he threatens to penalize for lateness. He'd already told the team that they would have to take extra outs this Saturday for only having 8 players, present. The league rules say that every time the 9th player comes up in rotation, if you are missing the 9th player, you have to take an out instead. Thom was worried not only about being late, but also about the coach stressing about how many players would show, not to mention our dead dog weighing on his mind.
So when we got in the truck after wrapping Kelly (1990-2007) in a sheet and placing her in the pool-house closet to await burial later this afternoon, I called Coach and told him we'd be late. I told him—I swear—"Our dog died."
Seemed like the thing to do.
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