Hoarder

Of skateboards.

Inaugural commentary:

The Man Who Lives In My House (demonstrating his extraordinary capacity for empathy):  "The republicans must be really bummed right now.  The've had so many mediocre people."

Me (lying on the floor, stretching my hamstrings be cause I ran 3 miles uphill today, people.  UPHILL):
"I need wine."

TMWLIMH:  "How will you drink it down there?  Shall I order up an IV?"

Me:  "No, just a bendy straw, like Sarah Palen.  And as for republican mediocrity, I don't feel bad for them in the least!  This is a DEMOCRACY.  They CHOSE those people."

Empathy has never been my strong suit.

Not all of us can be zen masters

My sister Abigail (the nice one the smart one blah blah blah) has also taken up running.  I keep encouraging her to get a puppy to make it more fun, but she looks pointedly at the puddle on my kitchen floor and says she'll think about it.

We were discussing what route to take on a run together.

"I only can run up hills to start,"  I explained, "Otherwise I get bored.  I need the motivation of the downhill to look forward to on the way home."

 Her response was to tilt her head and squint at me, "You can't run on flats?  You really have no inner life."

That girl.  She does cut to the chase, doesn't she?  To punish her, I took her on my longest run: up through the cemetery, across the golf course, over the ridge, and down the hill home.  At least I didn't make her pick up the dog poop.

Re-arranging the puppy

Last night, someone seemed to be snoring right in my ear.  It was loud, really loud.  It woke me up, sort of.  Not really.  I was confused:  one of The Man Who Lives In My House's best features is that he does not snore.  Magnus the mastiff puppy, on the other hand, does.  But this seemed to be coming from my pillow, it was so loud.

So I sort of gave TMWLIMH a shove and said, "Stop snoring."

This woke him up.  "I don't snore," he said peevishly.  "That's why you married me, remember?"

Oh.

"Well it must be the dog, then.  could you re-arrange him?"

TMWLIMH was so tired that he must have decided it was easier to aquiesce than to tell me to stuff it and re-arrange the pup myself if the snoring bothers me.

So he got up and sort of adjusted Magnus' wrinkly face to give his nostrils better clearance.

This morning the Hooligans were arguing over who Magnus likes best.

I saw my chance:  "I know, I bet he'd like to sleep with you guys!  Fix up a nice bed with an old blanket between your rooms and we'll send him upstairs tonight."

It's a brilliant solution. They sleep like the dead.

The running shoe is on the other foot.

In the past, various people who love me (Thank you.  I do appreciate it.) have encouraged me to exercise. They say things like:  I don't want you to die first.

Isn't that romatic?

Sometimes I have listened to them, but never consistently.  Some of these healthy folks have gone so far as to herd/drag me out the door and try to get me to run with them.

I generally go until the first garage sale, at which point I have to stop and see if there is anything good.  Other compelling reasons to stop include (but are not limited to): hills, flats, empty houses with for sale signs (I like to peek in the windows), seeing people I know (and must chat with, naturally), puppies, pretty gardens,  people working in their gardens (I have questions!), lemonade stands, birdsong, free piles, dumpsters with non-stinky stuff sticking out of them,  etc.

HOWEVER

There has been a change in my attitude.  Two changes, to be exact.  In the form of my two lazy dogs. The big one is old and the puppy is a mastiff.  They both really like to nap.  Sometimes the puppy has to be carried when we walk the smaller hooligan to school (4 whole blocks) or else we'll be very late.

Nonetheless  I am afraid to leave them alone in the house unless they are exhausted.  If they're feeling frisky and they get bored I'm pretty sure they will eat the couch.

So every morning  I snap on their leashes.  They roll their eyes at me.  Really?  They ask.  Because we're fine.  We'll just hang out here, maybe play a little biteface in the living room.  You go ahead.  don't let us hold you back.

No I tell them.  You'll enjoy it.  It's good for you.  You need the fresh air.  Come on now.  I can't go alone.  Who will protect me from cougars?

Exactly.  They tell me.  Nothing doing.  We don't care for cats.  See you later.  Have fun.  

At this point I fish the bag of treats out of my pocket and shake it at them.  You want this?  I ask?  Both dogs nod enthusiastically.  The little one starts to drool.

I take off.  They look at each other.  I can almost see them shrug.  Fine.  They haul themselves up and start trotting after me.  I have to remain just out of their reach for at least a quarter mile by which time they have forgotten their reluctance and are loping along cheerfully.  As am I.

The Man Who Lives In My House says that this whole interaction sums up my personality exactly:  I don't want to do anything unless I think it is my idea.

I should have gotten a puppy years ago.

Timing

The puppy has nearly doubled in size since we got him about 3 weeks ago.  He eats a lot, as you can imagine.  He dives into his food dish with wild abandon, gulping and smacking happily, after which he snuffles minutely over every inch of floor, hoping for stray crumbs.

The result of eating so fast and so much, (not to mention so many items that are not meant for canine consumption) are hiccups.  Which sometimes subside....and other times escalate into a crescendo of  heaves, with a projectile finale of dog barf.

Since this is a lengthy process we usually have time to grab him and toss him outside. The other night around four, though, we were awakened (by the horrible heaving noise) too far into the process to intervene.  The man Who Lives In My House jumped out of bed and grabbed the heaving puppy, who  an erupted at that moment.

"He threw up on my good pants!" The Man was outraged.

I was really not very awake.  I was not in a diplomatic frame of mind.  (Am I ever?  Sadly, no.) "That's what happens when you leave your pants on the floor."  was my response.

This was not what the man wanted to hear.  "Well you clean it up while I deal with the puppy and put my pants in the wash."

Deal with the puppy?  What did the puppy need?  I was wondering about this as I fetched the paper towels and the cleaning spray.  It's not a kid where you need to help them brush their teeth.

Turned out "deal with the puppy" meant "prevent the puppy from eating his own barf."

It's like a recirculating dog barf fountain.  How efficient.

I've asked this before:  Why do I like dogs so much?  It is a mystery.

A plague upon my house.

I was making my bed the other morning.  I'm not a neat freak, but I like to make my bed so I can pile stuff on top of it over the course of the day.  Anyway, I picked up one of the pillows to fluff it up and there was a cricket.

Eeeuw.  It may have been there all night.  

It could be worse.  It was not a roach.  But it was an insect.  And furthermore, I recognized it.  This was not a cute little lace-wing or grasshopper visitor from my garden.  This was one of the juicy brown crickets we buy at the pet mart for the Larger hooligan's leopard gecko.

12 for $1, if you're wondering.  I make him pay for them.  And I ask the pet mart lady to put them in a brown sack, so I don't have to look at them on the way home.  It makes a scratching noise as I drive.  Eeeuw.  

I remained calm, as there was no one home to come running if I hollered.  I flicked it onto the floor and stomped on it.  Sorry cricket.  Sorry lizard.  I felt a little bad, but mostly relieved.

I suspect that the cricket container got dumped.   The larger hooligan failed to mention this to me.  This shows that he has a strong sense of self preservation.  That's a good thing.  

Later, on the phone, my mom pointed out that these pet store crickets may be invasive.  Perhaps they will devour every green thing in the neighborhood, starting with my garden. It will be a plague of locusts.  She's not one to look on the bright side, is she?  Bad Grandma.

All because of the Larger Hooligan's insectivorous leopard gecko.  I liked it better when she was living under the stove, unbeknownst to me.  The ants that meander through my kitchen were mysteriously absent during that period.....