Gotta make the diaper run

When I arrived home yesterday, Emmett greeted me by saying, "Muffy is out of diapers."

Insert heavy sigh here.

Muffy is our dog. We got him as a stray sixteen years ago; he's probably around eighteen years old. And he has bladder issues. After much trial-and-error, we found a perfect solution: the smallest size baby diaper, for 8- to 14-pounders, held in place with a Velcro-closure ankle wrap that winds around him two and a half times. He goes through about three diapers a day.

"When did you notice he was out?"

"A few hours ago," said Ethan, who had joined us in the kitchen.

"For future reference," I said, "in a case like that, call me right away so I can stop on the way home rather than have to run back out." Which I did need to do right away, because Muffy was currently imprisoned, diaperless, on the back porch, which has linoleum flooring (ahem).

To Ethan and Emmett I say: Ya Goofs!

Of course, neither Janet nor I took note that the diapers were getting low. So I also say to us: Ya Goofs!

P.S. Muffy's diapers come in a 52-pack; i.e., about an eighteen-day supply. With a dog this old, I only buy one pack at a time, which I have to admit is showing little optimism ...