When I was here, I wanted to be there; when I was there, all I could think of was getting back into the jungle. I’m here a week now, waiting for a mission, getting softer. Every minute I stay in this room, I get weaker, and every minute Charlie squats in the bush, he gets stronger.
I’m not a morning person. Ask anyone.
When I was a kid my folks had to use a garden hose to flush me out of bed if I were to get my newspapers delivered before the evening news came on. In college I tried to schedule classes as late in the day as possible because the night time was the right time, don’t you know.
As a dropout I worked a janitorial gig — total night shift, 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. And a couple years after I returned to college and got that old sheepskin my newspaper career settled down into shifts of mostly 4 p.m. to 1 a.m. on one copy desk or another.
Yap!
So, yeah. I don’t like mornings unless I can face them on my own terms. This means arising slowly, gradually, easing into the day as though it were an overly hot tub.
Alas, with Herself elsewhere, as she is today, that hot tub is more like an icy pond.
Herself does not object to mornings in principle. She gets up and gets busy, wrangling dog and cats and coffee, while I enjoy an extra hour or two of watching whichever movie happens to be showing on the inside of my eyelids. My participation in the morning ritual mostly involves sitting in the reading room, staring dumbly at the rumbling furnace register, as Turkish describes figure-eights around my ankles before leaping into the sink for a drink.
When Herself is in absentia, I have to assume a slightly more active role.
At dark-thirty Buddy sounds his version of “Reveille,” a single note — “Yap!” — as the imprisoned cats drag the hallway carpet underneath the basement door. Unless I want to hear it again — and again, and again, and again — I have to drag my big ass out of bed and chuck his little ass outside.
Next I liberate the Turk’ and Miss Mia Sopaipilla, who demand a hearty breakfast after their long, dark night of unconstitutional detention without charge or even probable cause. The former gets straight to work on a bowl of kibble while the latter enjoys an aperitif of heavy whipping cream before diving into the crunchies.
A depleted Buddy rejoins the party and gets his own bowlful of breakfasty goodness, after which I stumble downstairs to see what fresh horrors the cats have left in the litter box. After a nostril-scorching few moments of turd dispersal I totter back upstairs to get the coffee started, which involves a bit of dishwashing as some eejit forgot to run the dishwasher last night.
As the java bubbles, so does Buddy. Full of chow and good humor, he locates a toy and begins chomping on it rhythmically — squeaka squeaka squeaka — as I pour a cup and try to decipher the morning news. Squeaka squeaka squeaka makes more sense than pretty much anything being attributed to Those In Authority. The temptation to add a dollop of 12-year-old Redbreast to the coffee is nearly irresistible.
Happily, things begin to settle down and the whiskey bottle remains corked. It’s time for the post-breakfast nap. Mia snoozes in a donut atop the ’fridge, while Buddy beds down in his kennel. The Turk’ is last to fade. In his capacity as field marshal of the 1st Feline Home Defense Regiment he inspects the perimeter from various windowsills before finally settling down in the Tower of Power in the living room.
Peace. At last. Time to get some work done.
Squeaka squeaka squeaka. …
I can't look at a red fox without hearing, "Hey, dummy!"
The first fox of the season popped round this morning as I was prepping for a ride.
He (or she) had a refreshing drink at my front-lawn sprinkler, then wiped out a few chickens belonging to a neighbor before leading us all on a merry chase around the ’hood.
Little sucker was as shameless as a House Republican, but absolutely without fear (this is how you can tell the difference between a chicken-stealing varmint and a House Republican).
I briefly considered sending the obnoxious sumbitch to the Great Beyond with one of the quieter family firearms — something in a .22 long — but decided against it. He (or she) is just doing what comes natural, and I don’t have the State’s permission to bust a cap in his (or her) ass.
But Turkish, Mia and Buddy will be enjoying some strict supervision in the backyard henceforth, and I may invest in a bag of BBs for the old air pistol. A ping in the pooter may persuade this grinning rascal to seek sustenance elsewhere.
Capping off another terrific Christmas: from left, Bouncing Buddy Banzai the Spinning Japanese Chin; Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein, who clearly had too much eggnog last night; and Miss Mia Sopaipilla.
Preparations for the annual holiday feast have begun at Chez Dog. Herself’s gift, a Canon Vixia HF M41 camcorder, is charging on the kitchen table (she aced a video-production class this fall) as she assembles a raspberry cobbler.
Next up is a cornbread-stuffing recipe we’ve never tried before — the cornbread itself is already done, and top-notch it is, too — followed by an appetizer of toasted baguettes topped with a rich spread of prosciutto, butter, Parmigiano-Reggiano and pine nuts (also a newcomer); mashed spuds; sauteéd spinach with mushrooms; giblet gravy, cranberry relish; and last but not least, roast turkey.
I usually do something offbeat for Christmas, like a Northern New Mexican feast or a chicken cacciatore, but this year I decided we needed the comfort food. The leftovers are the best part of a traditional turkey dinner — turkey sandwiches, turkey enchiladas, turkey soup, and whatnot. You cook like a mad bastard for one day and reheat leftovers for three days. What’s not to like?
Meanwhile, the traditional Humiliation of the Animals has been accomplished. The furry swine failed to get me a MacBook Air or an iPhone 4, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let that pass without retribution. You can order that stuff online, f’chrissakes. No messy human interaction or trips to the mall required:
“Hello, how may I help you?
“Meow.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Meow!”
“Come again?”
“Meeeowwwwwwrrrr. ... Oh, fuck it, Buddy, you try.”
“Woof?”
Mia and Turkish watch as Buddy (not pictured) gets a grooming from Herself.
The mighty river of VeloNews finally slowed to a trickle today. I fired off an invoice to Corporate and slipped out for a short ride.
Several impatient motorists seemed in dire need of a brisk hosing down with a fire extinguisher full of tryptophan on this day before Thanksgiving. I tallied exactly 349,392 moving violations intended to kill me before abandoning the count.
Plenty of static violations, too, my favorite being the bulbous land yacht parked smack dab in the middle of the bike lane, right under the “No Parking In Bike Lane” sign. This appalling lack of reading comprehension is not encouraging to those of us who earn our meager livings from wielding the English language.
Oh, well. At least I got my big ass out in the late-November sunshine (this is not strictly accurate, of course; it was wearing bib shorts). Herself and I took the critters out for an airing, too. Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein, Miss Mia Sopaipilla and Banzai Buddy the Japanese Wonder Chin all scored themselves a little free vitamin D, which can be hard to come by this time of year.
That’s a little something to be thankful for in trying times when we 99 percenters hear the distant ring of carving knives clashing rhythmically against sharpening steels and wonder if we’re what’s for dinner.
And if that doesn’t get your drumstick throbbing, raise a glass to longtime Friend of the DogS(h)ite Boz, who notes in comments that he’s back to working for The Man.
From our family to yours, happy Thanksgiving.
The Turk' cops some Zs and dreams of summertime.
Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein is always critical of my weather-management skills on that first really cold, damp day of fall.
Denied access to the great outdoors, he stalks around the house making pointed observations and issuing orders. There is no food in this dish! I will have a drink in the sink! Scratch my ears at once! (And don’t be surprised if I scratch something of yours in return.)
Finally, he naps fitfully on my drawing board, trying to catch whatever feeble rays of sunshine filter through the clouds. Truly, a winter of discontent.
Our two cats in the yard, Turkish and Miss Mia Sopaipilla, on safari in the backyard jungle. Shhhh — they're hunting grasshoppers. Hahahahaha. ...
Herself and I dined out this evening with a neighbor and some of her out-of-town family, with whom we have become friendly over the years.
There was wine afterward on our back deck, and as it was getting dark nobody noticed (I hope) the half-assed mowing job I did yesterday. Miss Mia Sopaipilla and Buddy the Wonder Dog made brief appearances to rave reviews, but Turkish refused to leave his dressing room, citing obscure union regs about dogs and cats and never the twain shall meet outside the Thunderdome, and certainly not while the party of the first part is wearing a ridiculous purple harness and leash, which is the only way the big galoot gets outside since collecting a nasty and expensive abscess while at large and unfettered.
All in all, it was a pleasant way to end a day of making bricks without straw at PharaohNews. A casual glance at the interwebs at midshift unearthed a few small-helmet types aghast at our lack of investigative journalism. This is not unlike complaining that the free blowjob you just got from the unemployed barmaid didn’t include a free shot of top-shelf tequila with an artisan-beer back.
Just think, if we could find the pot of gold at the end of that rascal, we could solve our national debt "crisis" ... by imprisoning the House GOP caucus for treason.
Just a rainbow, courtesy of the afternoon monsoons, which have returned for a while. They sure do cool things down at night.
Meanwhile, in DeeCee, Weepy John Boehner is still leading from the rear, frantically trying to figure out which brand of tinfoil his Tea Bagger buddies want for their beanies. The gang at Talking Points Memo is on top of things as they happen, and for high-quality analysis and snark you can check with Steve Benen at Political Animal and Kevin Drum at Mother Jones.
Suffice it to say that the news is all bad. At least Kevin supplies cat-blogging on Fridays to lighten the mood.
Here in Dog Country we’ll engage in a bit of dog-blogging as a counterpoint. We’ve been crate-training Buddy and so far, so good. He’s (mostly) sleeping through the night and has had no more accidents in the crate since we pulled the bedding out of it. He’s getting at least one longish walk daily and plenty of backyard time. And today he even romped a bit with Herself, gamboling about the DogHaus like a happy pup and even barking a couple of times, just for the hell of it.
The Feline Caucus, of course, finds this incomprehensible. But so far they haven’t tried any nihilistic shenanigans, which goes to show you that pretty much any old four-legged furball is smarter than the average House Repuglicant.
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