Dear Diary,
1:00 AM - I'm sick as a dog. Literally. Barfed on one, two three throw rugs.
1:15 AM - Mom looks worried. She says she wishes she wouldn't have given me the new flea treatment that morning. She thinks I'm having an allergic reaction.
1:30 AM - I'm in the bathtub. Mom's sudsing me up with Oatmeal Shampoo, trying to wash away all the poison. I sit looking straight ahead.
2:00 AM - It's the blow dryer. I hate that thing. It makes such noise, and it scares me when it blows all that warm air on me.
2:30 AM - I'm still not dry. Wish that stupid blow dryer would break.
2:45 AM - Almost dry. I'm shivering. Mom wraps me in her warm soft robe and I fall asleep in Dad's chair.
8:00 AM - I'm too tired to get up. Mom thinks there's something terribly wrong.
8:01 AM - Dad tests me, 'There's Max outside!" I jump from the chair and run to the window.
I must be all better.
Gracie.
