We have nothing to fear but fear itself. And drums.

I'm sure I've mentioned here before that Daisy is my crazy dog. Last week, she had to go to the vet because she broke a toenail while freaking out in the bathtub (OHMIGAWD! WATER! I'M GOING TO DIE! RUN AWAY!). Today, my brother came over with his new gigantic truck, and she fearlessly ran under the truck (because there were people on the other side), and then jumped up into the cab (because an open vehicle door is a clear indication that it's time for a ride, even if she's never seen the vehicle before). I'm always amused by the things that do and do not scare her. She'll lovingly lick the vet and the letter carrier on the face, but she's terrified of the Furminator brush.

I've also mentioned that neither dog approves of my zill playing. They'll fold their ears back, look at me with accusing eyes, and slink off to the bedroom to hide. Well, apparently they just hate percussion instruments in general, because Chris was playing a drum tonight and there was Daisy, sitting in the bedroom doorway giving me that sad look that asked "When is the scary drum going to go away?"

That's my Daisy, a dog of extremes.