"Good night, Mom." Drama Queen, the last child to be up, heads down the hall to her room.
I lock up the house. I switch off the kitchen and dining room lights. I turn and see the desk lamp still on. Underneath it, on the desk, basks Psycho Cat. On the ground next to the desk and in front of the fireplace is a sleeping Drake.
I go to the desk, and nuzzle the cat. "Good night, Kitty." He stretches and glories my day with his acceptance of my attention.
I turn to kneel and do the same with my Drake...and he passes doggy gas. He looks up in embarrassment and shame, then buries his nose under his paws as the smell fills the space quickly.
"Damn it, Drakers." I curl my nose, stand, and flick off the lamp in disgust.
I walk out of the front room to bed. In the darkness behind me, Drake groans in his own stinky misery. You'd think by now ('cause this is an often occurance) he'd learn to get up and move...