(I hope this blog post is semi-coherent--it has been a looong week. It turns out that my younger daughter Jane's elbow isn't broken-- it's sprained--but learning this necessitated many, many hours in medical facilities waiting and waiting and waiting. Which would have been okay if I hadn't had to rip out almost all the knitting I accomplished during that time. Then, you know, I discovered that Edward Kitty had used Jane's closet as a urinal during his last illness--which meant we had to throw a lot of stuff out and boil what could be washed. Truly disgusting. Coop was out of town. I'm dieting and have spent too much of my household budget, thus I am having to resort to actually COOKING (the horror!) --and I can't stop thinking about the Haitian people--especially the parents who are looking for their lost kids. But if I think too much about that, I can't actually parent my OWN children so I just walk around with part of my brain and heart engaged elsewhere.)
(Yes, I can even BEGIN a blog post with a digression. I am gifted in that way.)
He'll be one year old on Valentine's Day.
He is the size of a small pony.
He is destroying my house.
As he barreled into me this morning and spilled my coffee in his haste to get to me before I petted Scout (our older dog) good morning, I realized that he just isn't as cute as he was.
It's the Kitten Theory of Childrearing, only ...well...bigger.
He is the Master of the Fly-By. Not only can he sneak in and grab a bit of Scout's food faster than Scout can raise an alarm but he does this other... thing. I will be cooking and will have just washed my hands and be on my way to the pantry and he will raise his head and lick my hand as I pass. I will turn around, wash my hands again and he'll freaking do it AGAIN. Over and over. His nose is just the wrong height--the skin on my hands is starting to peel.
He has boundless energy and if I don't make sure he's gotten some exercise he will torment me until I retreat upstairs to escape him. Or worse, put my shoes on and get out the leashes and take the dang dogs for a walk. Often I have exercised when I had no intention of doing so. (Luckily for me, Coop takes the dogs most days when he's in town. UNluckily for me, he takes them much farther than I ever would which builds up their endurance, which makes me have to exercise for even longer than I had planned. The world conspires to get me fit, I swear.)
I have great fear for our backyard once it thaws out there. For one thing, it looks like some sort of horror movie gone wrong, what with all the old marrow bones littering everywhere. (When I take him with me to the butcher, the guys leave their counters to come visit the puppy in my car. Then they give me marrow bones for him which I take home and boil. (I tell you what, though, it's good for at least an hour of silence while the puppy works that bone over.) (I am less excited about the game that goes on between 4:00 and 5:00 IN THE MORNING when the entire house is awakened by the sound of marrow bones falling on the hardwood floor downstairs. Left to his own devices, the puppy will throw the bone up into the air and try to catch it. He's not a very good catch.)) (Oh, a digression within a digression--am I good or what?)
The backyard is also dotted with pieces of the tarp we used to have over our firewood and smaller pieces of the grill cover. Also, those window well covers are apparently made of very flimsy plastic. Plus dog toys and giant doggy foot prints-- it's just darn attractive out back.
So, even as I write, the puppy is sitting under my desk with his head on my knee. His ears are impossibly soft and if I stop petting him, he nibbles my elbow. This is interfering in the worst way with my production.