Just busy writing other things. But, in good news, the dog has learned how to open ajar doors. He is braining!
I still feel bad. And I have a shit-ton to do next week, so I kind of need to get better faster.
The Butcher is in Illinois making another attempt to get a ring. I think this will be successful. I hope, anyway.
We dogsat the black dog all week and he was really easygoing and fun this time. But when his family came to pick him up and he settled right back in with his little girl, I felt like he’d never been truly happy here.
Also, now that he’s less anxious about being here, he didn’t run around and find all Sonnyboy’s bones. He just found the bone he wanted and “buried” it under the dog bed every day.
At least being sick has been good for one thing–I’ve gotten a lot done on these afghans. I just zone out, turn on some podcasts, and count to three a lot. That I can handle.
We’re dogsitting Sonnyboy’s neurotic friend while his family is at Disney. So, this morning I slept in while the boys went to the park.
The Butcher told me that there was a point on the walk when the dogs seemed to be awkwardly playing with each other. Has Sonnyboy ever played with another dog before? Certainly not in all the time we’ve had him.
One thing I really respect about Sonnyboy is that he’s not bitter. If I had a boring life for the first four years (or whatever the human equivalent of that was) and then there was pizza and inside and cuddles and peanut butter and butt scratches and car rides, some part of me would feel like I had been up until that point cheated.
But the dog is just like “This is great!” Things were one way. Now they’re another. Just roll with it.
This morning, we were walking and I was steadily watching the curve in the road because all walk, cars were coming around it too fast and seemed to not be seeing us. So, I registered a lump on the pavement but did not look too closely at it.
Then we were right up on it. A dead possum. And Sonnyboy stuck his tongue out and touched his tongue to the possum’s butt. “No!” I shouted and tugged him away. “Don’t eat that.”
But he didn’t seem to be eating it. He seemed just to be tasting it. Which, I admit, made me laugh, because he puts everything in his mouth to see if it might be food–Kleenex, carrots, mail–but not the possum. It he wanted to keep outside of his mouth while he decided if it was worth trying to eat.
And then, when we got back to the grass, I saw him eyeing a plastic bag in the bushes and I dropped the leash and shouted “Get it, get it!” and he ran up on it and was like “Yep, plastic bag. Knew it all the time.” And then I said, “Okay, come back, Rufus,” and he did!
My brother is officially telling people he’s married now, so, also, that’s nice. His oldest son Photoshopped Godzilla into one of the pictures and everyone agrees that it’s the best one.
I like when we can eek out a little happiness.
I have been feeling so decadent lately, just sitting around doing what I want to, or not doing what I don’t want to, for a whole week.
This morning the dog ran off on me. I think there’s another animal that’s been up near the houses, maybe the orange cat new kitty has been fighting with, maybe a coyote (though I hope not), and apparently that requires a lot of peeing all over the neighborhood.
I hollered and hollered and finally, when I yelled, exasperated, “Fine, I’ll just go for this walk without you,” who should come loping out of the darkness?
No use in getting mad at him. As much as he’s improved at being a dog over the past year (did I tell you all my theory that this may be due to the thyroid medicine? I mean, that’s the theory–he’s learning to brain because his brain is working in ways it didn’t before.), he still does not understand anger. It doesn’t mean to him, “Oh, shit, I have pushed things too far and should shape up.” It just means, “what the fuck is going on with her and am I going to get hurt out of it?” He just does not make the connection between my anger and his behavior.
Which, I mean, is not surprising. How recently did he finally get that his behavior could delight me?
But I realized, based on Christmas, I come from a loud family that uses a current of anger to shock people into behaving. I have very few skills for motivating someone who doesn’t understand all the yelling.
I think dogs teach you things. This dog is teaching me a hard thing I barely have the skills for.
I have to talk on the phone to everyone today. I’m already running late but I didn’t want to not post anything. My parents are about to arrive. I am worried there’s going to be some kind of interrogation about my mental health. I just want to be able to respond with the generosity and calmness and reassurance that will make them less anxious. But maybe they don’t care. Maybe I’m just projecting onto them.
The dog seems to be getting this whole “come when he’s called” thing and, best of all, he seems to really enjoy it. I know it can’t last or be counted on, but I’m enjoying it.
Also, I love this afghan so much. I feel very fortunate to have hit a string of afghans that give me great pleasure.
Jessi Zazu has cancer. The hits just keep on coming this year, I tell you what. I was watching her video where she talks about her diagnosis and shaves her head for her next round of chemo and I couldn’t help but feel like this is offensive, this cancer. Zazu is really trying to make the world a better place. She works so hard for her community. Her music is amazing. And she’s so young. There are so many old sacks of shit in this world. Let cancer take them.
I know I’m not alone in feeling this way about this year, but I feel like the things that are supposed to make us happy–a very wanted baby, for instance, or our friends and mentors–have been shown to be so easily stripped away. And that we’ve lost many of the people I would have turned to in order to make sense of our current moment as a nation and as a world. We’re going into this next year, these next four years, without the people I’ve counted on to make sense of this stuff.
To find beauty and meaning even in very dark days.
I feel like all these massive floodlights have burned out or are burning out and it’s just left to those of us who still have matches to light the way. As the song says, this little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine, but fuck if I know which way to shine it. Or if anyone can see it. Or if all I’m doing is giving away my position.
I am doing something stupid, which is letting the dog run big loops in my two neighbors’ yards in the morning before we go for our walk. He doesn’t consistently come when he’s called and he’s definitely too far away for me to control him with anything other than voice commands.
But when I see it, I just can’t bring myself to stop it. There in the dark, this pale blob, circling and circling and then running straight at me, tongue lolling, smile on his face. He pants and looks up at me like whoa, this is a good life.
And then this morning, he slid/rolled down the hill a good three or four feet and he wasn’t afraid. He loved it. And he leaped up and looked at me and then launched into this beautiful roll. And I felt so lucky to see it, so lucky to be there for it.
How often do we see miracles and just not realize it?
Yesterday, thanks to Facebook, I realized it was the third anniversary of the day we got him. If the vet’s initial assessment of his age was right, this makes him seven. I hate that with my whole heart because I can’t find any breed that he might be even a small part of that has a life expectancy longer than 10-12 years. We could, realistically, only have left as much time as we’ve had with him.
And yet, he seems so young to me because he is still learning things. He’s not yet set in his ways. There are still new things.
And even if it’s only for a short time, I feel very lucky to have him.
This week, the dog has developed a really annoying thing where he stands near the couch and barks at the Butcher like he needs to go out, but then when you put him out, he comes right back in.
I mentioned as a joke to the Butcher that maybe Sonnyboy just wants him to go outside for some reason.
But my god, people, today the dog barked at the Butcher and barked and it was super annoying and the Butcher got up to brush his teeth and go to work and the dog just stole his space on the couch!
I think the dog has been trying all along to trick the Butcher into getting up so that he can have the warm spot on the couch! But, before this morning, the attempt always ended with the dog outside and not near the couch.
Today, though. Today it worked.
I would be more frightened, but last night our neighbor came over to deliver a misdirected package and to get us to sign a petition and the dog was so shocked to see him at our house–the man who lives right next door, whose yard the dog has to examine thoroughly before we can go on our walk–he fell out. The delight! The yard runs both ways! If the dog can get there, the neighbor can get here! How does it work? What magic is this?
So, even though he’s clearly learning to brain, he’s not at evil genius levels yet.
Last night I dreamed I was trying to seduce one of the Butcher’s friends at my grandma’s house by letting him sleep in her bed and play video games on my phone. Because nothing says “let’s have sex” like “here is my grandma’s bed. Lay in it and be distracted by this phone.” (Ha ha ha. This reminds me that we saw this commercial last night for some KY product. A guy and a girl are making out. A baseball team is standing in the room. He tells the baseball team to get lost because he’s got some kind of new KY spray. The commercial ends. We sit in silence. I try my damn hardest to make sense of what I’ve just seen. I turn to the Butcher and I say, “Is she supposed to squirt the spray in his eyes to keep him from being distracted by the baseball team? I don’t get what the spray does.” But it turns out that the spray is supposed to keep you from coming too soon and apparently a way dudes thought you could keep from coming too soon in the past was to imagine baseball? But how could that even work when Mark Grace played baseball?!)
Anyway, it got me thinking of how much I dream of my grandma’s house and I wonder if that’s a problem for the people who live there now. Do they have any sense that I am there some nights wandering around?
This morning, before our walk, Sonnyboy was back beyond the creek sniffing something in the trees and I could barely make him out. He was a formless shifting light spot in the treeline and I thought, this is how he will look when he’s a ghost.
And it make me wonder how much of ghostliness is just a longing for those places where we felt most at ease.
Y’all, have I been misinterpreting what the dog wants from the hill? Today it was raining, so the hill was slick and he threw himself down, as he does, and wiggled/slid his way down the hill on his back head first and then he leaped up like “Ta Da!”
Has this been it? Not rolling down the hill but sliding? Did I get to see the culmination of months of effort today? I can’t be sure.
I called my parents last night and told them about the anxiety and the drugs. Basically because I realized there’s a good chance that I’m still not going to be 100% at Christmas and obviously they would notice.
It was awkward and in the middle of it my dad switched mid-stream to talking about when they were going to come down for Christmas. And I said, “So, just to be clear, this makes me crazy.” And my dad said he already knew that about me. And we laughed. It was awkward and uncomfortable. Or, at least, I felt awkward and uncomfortable and I wasn’t sure what to make of their reactions. They didn’t really have any questions. My mom volunteered to drive me up and down windy mountain roads to see if the medication was working.
And then they wanted to eat dinner, so we got off the phone.
I don’t know. I don’t know what to make of it or how to feel about it.
The afghan I’m working on now is really beautiful, though, and it makes me happy. Also, my little cousin got her afghan in the mail yesterday, while she was home sick from school, and she loved it. So, those are the feelings I’m going to glom onto.
One of the local parks–one of the big rural ones–is off-leash in the early mornings. Today Sonnyboy and the Butcher went there and Sonnyboy chased deer and made big circles in the field and still, somehow, came back to the Butcher when he was called.
The thing about a dog is this. Or maybe it’s a thing about everybody. But a dog can’t learn unless you put him in situations where he’s previously fucked up. If you want him to come when you call him, you have to put him in a position to come when you call him, which means letting him back into the circumstances where he has not come when you called him.
Today, he did it.
I am a little sad to have missed him bounding after the deer. I know how much he loves to chase things. But I never would have let him off the leash, so there we are, anyway.
I’m glad the Butcher could do that for him.
As you know, Sonnyboy is trying to learn to roll down the hill, for some reason known only to him. We have had a few successful rolls, but they are terrifying. Except today he positioned himself on a less-steep part of the hill and rolled down it and then looked at me with a big doofy grin and came over for head scratches.
I’m trying to understand this without anthropomorphizing it too much, but I also find this incredible. Not the rolling part. I can’t even be sure he really understood he was on a less-steep part of the hill. And I’ve just taken as a given that he for some reason wants to learn to roll down the hill and I am, in effect and pun intended, rolling with it.
But why would he come for head-scratches? I don’t want him to roll down the hill (I also don’t not want him to roll down the hill, of course. I’m just a curious bystander to the rolling.) so I’m not giving him any verbal commands. Sometimes he rolls behind me, so I don’t even think he’s picking up on something visual I’m doing. I’m not cuing him to roll down the hill, I don’t think. It’s purely something he does for himself that only involves me because I’m on the other end of the leash and need to try to keep him from tangling himself in it.
But somehow, for some reason, he must think that rolling down the hill is rewarding to us. He must think that I would want to pat his head in this moment because I am pleased. Maybe? I definitely feel like the thing that is happening is some sense of “we” between he and me is being created. He’s doing this thing that makes him happy and that must please us.
I think that Sonnyboy only understands at a very rudimentary level when we’re displeased with him. And even then it has to be immediate and loud. “No!” when he steps on your foot will get him to back off from stepping on your foot. But “no!” when you find him eating garbage seems only to confuse him.
So, I’m fascinated by this, because it seems to be some level of recognition that if he does this thing, I will have feelings about it.
I made this whole inner part to the third square before I realized I had accidentally base-13ed a square I needed to have base-12. I didn’t bother to frog it. I just turned it into a hat for the dog. He found it far, far less amusing than I did.
I think the thing that is hardest about these squares is that each one is unique. You don’t learn much that aids you in the next from the one you’ve just done. But I think I’m going to sew the four squares together and then just build an enormous border on it, until it is the size I’d like it to be. It’s for a child, so it doesn’t have to be huge.
The thing I most dislike about crocheting, though, is the sense I have that it’d be much easier if I had basic math skills. Everything is a story problem I’m going to not know how to solve except for trying it, failing, and fixing it. Possibly there’s a metaphor for life in there.
I didn’t spend much time mulling this weekend, but I spent a lot of time doing things I will need time to mull over.
And when I got home yesterday, there was a fire in my fireplace. It made me so happy.
I’m almost done piecing this afghan together and then I get to put on its fancy border. It feels like it’s gone very quickly, this afghan, but I also feel like I ended up with more time than usual to work on it, so maybe it hasn’t been that short a time, just worked differently. Each square took me somewhere between an hour and an hour and a half to do, so right there, that’s 30 to 50 hours.
This morning, when I walked the dog at our usual time, it was gloriously light out and so I got to see the look on the dog’s face when he pitched himself down the hill in an effort to roll/wiggle down it. And this morning, he managed a complete roll–on his feet, down on his back, feet over body, back on his feet–which he seemed uncertain about because, while he clearly wants to get down the hill without walking, wiggling on his back down the hill is slower and I think he feels more in control. Rolling down the hill? I can tell he has mixed feelings about it. The rolls he does that take him down the hill instead of across the hill face always seem to freak him out a little.
Today, he rolled down the hill, one complete roll, and he came up from the roll with this look of grim determination–or, I mean, let’s be frank, as much “grim” “determination” as this goofball can deliver–on his face, like “Okay, yeah, I got this.” I spoke some encouraging words to him and he did seem to shake it off and look up at me with a happy smile.
But I have to tell you, I found myself really moved by it. I’m kind of tearing up right now just trying to write about it. He is a simple dog. When we got him, he didn’t understand wooden floors and he didn’t know how to run. I’m partially convinced that he doesn’t understand “no” because he’s never been allowed to do things, so how can he comprehend not doing them?
But somewhere along the way this year he seems to have formulated an idea–if rolling is fun, rolling down the hill would be super fun–and he has set out to acquire the skills he needs to make this happen. He has been learning to roll, then roll completely over, while also figuring out how to navigate down the hill without using his feet. All of these things have been fun. He takes great joy in them. But the times he has rolled down the hill accidentally I can tell have been scary as fuck for him.
But he keeps doing it and today, no, it wasn’t fun, but it wasn’t freak-out scary for him. And I swear, I don’t think I’m anthropomorphizing–I think the look he gave me when he got down the hill was pride. He did the scary thing he wanted to do and it wasn’t as scary as it had been.
And I find this marvelous, in both senses of the word. I love it and I marvel at it. Not the rolling. But watching this dumb, dumb dog slowly, over many, many, many days, months of days, practically a half year of days, formulate an idea, imagine himself doing something and then slowly make a plan for it and to work on that plan even when a component of it is scary as hell.
How does this even happen? I mean, we take it for granted. But he could not brain. When we got him, he literally could not brain. And now he has at least in this instance a sense of himself doing something I don’t think he’s ever done before. In other words, a sense of himself and a level of imagination and a desire. I mean, it’s not just that he’s problem-solving. That blows me away, considering he’s stymied by “there was a piece of pork chop in your hand and you opened your hand and where is the pork chop?! You are holding out your finger and thrusting it toward the ground. Is the pork chip stuck to your finger? Alarm! Where is the pork chop?!!!??!!!”
But it’s also that he understood he had a problem. I’m amazed that we’ve spent so long on step two, which indicates he has hope for a resolution, because I cannot understand what has happened that allows him to see that step one–I have a want and I can figure out what this want is–exists.
One thing that I admire and find confusing and lovely about dogs is that they are not human. Their brains don’t work like ours. You own a dog and you live with an inexplicable mystery that wants to sleep on the couch with you, for some reason, even though you haven’t even brushed your teeth yet. You live with a dog, you live with something that will, at heart, always be a stranger to you and yet, unlike stranger-ness in humans, it’s exactly the dog’s stranger-ness to you and your stranger-ness to it that allow you to care about each other.
So, I don’t know what’s going on in old Sonnyboy’s head. But I think there has, at least in this one way, been a paradigm shift for him and he has developed some sense of anticipation and, in order to do that, some sense of himself and of planning that I just genuinely don’t think he had before.
And I am in awe, such awe, to be witnessing it. I am seeing a new thing slowly coming into being. It’s extraordinary.
This morning, the dog and I walked between bands of rain. So, we stayed dry, but we got all the pleasant smell of showers. With the cloud cover, it was somehow lighter in the back yard. I guess it lets the light from the AT&T building reflect?
Tonight we begin the spooky stories in earnest. Tonight’s is about stubborn Midwesterners, folk singing, and missing girls. Tomorrow night’s is my favorite of the whole bunch.
But, if you need something to carry you through, I wrote about spooky stuff at the State Museum for the Scene this week. I’m really proud of how it turned out, even if it’s sad.
Oh, ha ha, in other news, it’s very clear that the afghan I am working on was not fucking around about you needing two skeins of each yarn. You can only get four squares out of a skein, but you need five. So, I guess I’m going to get my popcorn border after all.
The back light is out so the dog and I had to stumble together toward the far end of the back yard in the dark. There’s a point when you get just past the first stand of trees, near the creek, when the sky opens up. I had been struggling to try to find the path between the last trees and the old barbecue pit, willing my eyes to adjust to the dark, when I came into the clear spot and I saw something moving on the ground.
How could I see anything moving on the ground in this darkness? And then I realized that soft gray thing moving on the ground was me–my shadow. I looked up behind me and the moon was a smile in the sky. I don’t know if it’s that it’s so clear or so not humid, but it didn’t seem like enough of a moon to cast a shadow and yet, there it was.
I cast a lot of shadows in the dark, in the mornings. The AT&T building is well-lit. The street lights along Lloyd are bright. And I’m sure I must have cast shadows by moonlight before. I was a child outside of the city, after all. But this felt like the first time I ever realized how soft and mysterious a shadow cast by moonlight is. A thing that seems like a secret you and the moon share.
The dog must also have had a shadow, but he is such a bright yellow in the moonlight that, when I looked at him, reflecting the light the moon reflected from the sun, all I could see was brightness. I wonder if I had looked behind me when he stood near me, if I would have seen an even fainter shadow of me?
Every story with this dog that ends “and then he pooped in the house” starts with some variation of “he didn’t want to go out in the yard because it’d been raining.” He’s a lab! How can he so hate getting his feet wet?
But he does. Today I dragged him on a walk between rain showers and you would have thought I was the most unreasonable jerk to ever unreasonably jerk around town. But he pooped.
So, victory is mine.
We went down and got my oldest nephew married off. On the one hand, it’s mindblowing because I have a nephew old enough to get married. What?! On the other hand, he’s only eighteen, which seems like a very young age to be getting married.
But it’s not like any one else in his family, myself included, knows what the fuck they’re doing in teh love and commitment department, so who knows? Maybe it’ll work out.
I came home early, ostensibly to pick up the dog from the sitter but really because I’d hoped that by keeping the trip short, I could lessen the chances that someone in my family would make me blind with fury. Unfortunately, that happened in the first twenty minutes I was there and I had to wrap myself in a thick layer of Bengay just to deal with my rage and how cramped up I was from driving with no cruise.
I would just like to thank Chevy for making their vehicles nearly impossible to trail due to their inability to hold a speed. And by “thank” I mean “beat with a stick.” Anyway.
My youngest nephew is a person! I guess that isn’t fair. But the last time I saw him, he was so obviously thirteen. And now he’s a young man and a cool one at that. So, that was fun and nice.
My oldest nephew’s wife’s family served a meal after the wedding which was so fantastic. I don’t know what any of it was. Beef in some kind of sauce. Chicken in another kind of sauce. Homemade tortillas. Coleslaw with dried cranberries in it! I repeat, coleslaw with dried cranberries. It was so good.
I hope they are happy. I really do.
In unrelated news, the dogsitter texted the Butcher because she was concerned because the dog didn’t come upstairs to bed. He explained that, considering that the dog didn’t know how to walk on our floors at first, it’s safe to assume he had no idea a house could have an upstairs nor what he’d do with himself if he went there.
I tried not to let it hurt my feelings, but it did a little bit when the dog was obviously disappointed that it was just me who came to get him. He loves the Butcher so much.
I woke up to a huge puddle of piss in the kitchen. We got clear to the back of the yard and I realized the dog didn’t have his collar on. We had to come back for it. I got halfway on our walk and I realized I wasn’t particularly angry or upset about either thing.
I don’t feel like I’m becoming a mellower person, just that the things I want to be angry about are not these small things.
The thing that sucks about your 40s is that people die and when they die, they’re not that much older than you. Like, there goes Pat Summitt. And can you imagine? One of the most brilliant minds in college basketball struck down by Alzheimer’s. Because the universe likes a sick and tragic joke.
Whatever you love, whatever is most fundamental to you, you’re going to lose.it. It’s depressing, but it makes me feel such urgency. Will I get the thing written before I can’t write any more? “The thing” being the work that makes me feel like “Yep, I did it.”
I worried a little that the pee in the kitchen might be the start of kidney problems, but the Butcher tells me that the dog wouldn’t get off the porch last night. I am slightly annoyed that the Butcher didn’t then take him off the porch. But would I have? I can’t say.
I just need to keep my head down and my work good and get through this busy mess.
The other day, there was a big brouhaha because some fans on Tumblr were pretending to be the folks from The Black Tapes podcast. The Black Tapes is really cool with fans participating in the world, but it seems like this wasn’t clear that it was being done by fans. There was no disclaimer to say that the accounts weren’t run by the show and seemed to encourage confusion. So, the Black Tapes people had to try to walk this complicated line where they encouraged people to do all kinds of fan things–except thoroughly impersonating the show to the point of confusion.
There is something weird about the ways in which we feel like liking something gives us a right to it, some level of ownership over it. Like it’s ours to devour and consume, literally.
I finished Paul Tremblay’s Disappearance at Devil’s Rock last night and it left me uneasy. Lake Mungo is one of my favorite movies. There probably aren’t that many people in the world who are going to read Disappearance who have also seen Lake Mungo so I don’t know how many people will notice it, but it’s the same story. Disappearance is what happens when you set Lake Mungo in the U.S. and give it a villain. Major plot points, which are genuinely surprising and upsetting the first time you encounter them, are present in both stories. Tremblay’s a really good writer so the parallels don’t ruin the book if you have seen the movie. But the movie is a delicate thing and it works hard at establishing a great aura of uncertainty. If you read the book before you see the movie, part of the movie’s delicate uncertainty will be absent for you.
So, that sucks. On the other hand, you’re probably not going to stumble across an obscure Australian horror movie. Maybe it doesn’t matter.
I guess I’m left feeling, too, like I wish there’d been a clear wink and a nod in the book or in the publicity around the book to Lake Mungo, something to say “Here are this story’s roots, so, if you like this story, check out this movie.”
Genre stories–well, all stories, but I’m focusing on genre now–get retold all the time. So, I guess it’s not the retelling that bothers me, especially when the retelling is this well done. But doesn’t a fan of a work owe it to the work to make sure that the work is known? That the influence is acknowledged?
What do fans who are also creators owe their inspirations? I don’t have a good answer for that. I’m not sure that, if I’ve had answers along the way, they’re sufficient or satisfactory.
But I feel like you have to leave breadcrumbs. You have to show the path you’ve taken. Whether it’s saying “This is a fan site because I love this thing so much, but please don’t mistake it for the thing itself” or “This is an homage to the movie I love, so, hey, if you like the book, show some love to the movie.” Otherwise, it feels like it’s not love, but theft.
Also, in other things that upset me, for the first time since I’ve owned this dog, he’s sleeping away from me at such an angle with his legs crossed at such an angle that the black scars on the back of his one leg line up with the black scars on the front of the other leg and it’s clear that they are not scars, plural, but one scar. At some point, a wire wrapped his back legs together and cut in to him deep enough to scar.
I want to cry for a million years.
And yet, what else about him would ever tell you anything bad had ever happened to him? He still has an open, joyful heart. He likes everyone.
I wish that I could say the same.
The dog went on a friendly neighborhood rampage last night and while I was screaming his name and stumbling through backyards, he ate the neighbor’s cheese ball, some of their crackers, pooped in another neighbor’s yard, and commandeered another AT&T truck.
It’s dispiriting how well he listens when it interests him and how blissfully unaware he is of anyone hollering after him as he runs off to do what he wants.
I’m really, really glad my neighbors found it funny. They were shouting “I didn’t know you could even run that fast” at him and encouraging him to poop in other yards.
I am mortified, though.
This morning, as we were coming back from our walk, the Butcher came home. The dog got so excited he was jumping and tugging and barking, so I let him go. He went racing, full speed, towards the man he loves.
Then, there was New Kitty at the back of the shed. So, Sonnyboy stopped at the shed, hung out with New Kitty for a few minutes and then, when the Butcher shouted “Hey,” to me, the dog was all excited again! His boy was home! Oh wow!
He ran toward the Butcher. Again. Like he had just realized the Butcher was home.
It made me laugh really hard.
Like, bless his heart, he wanted to be excited the whole length of the back yard, but he can’t keep something in his brain that long.
I can’t get over these three paragraphs by Matt Taibbi:
The triumvirate of big media, big donors and big political parties has until now successfully excluded every challenge to its authority. But like every aristocracy, it eventually got lazy and profligate, too sure it was loved by the people. It’s now shocked that voters in depressed ex-factory towns won’t keep pulling the lever for “conservative principles,” or that union members bitten a dozen times over by a trade deal won’t just keep voting Democratic on cue.
Trump isn’t the first rich guy to run for office. But he is the first to realize the weakness in the system, which is that the watchdogs in the political media can’t resist a car wreck. The more he insults the press, the more they cover him: He’s pulling 33 times as much coverage on the major networks as his next-closest GOP competitor, and twice as much as Hillary.
Trump found the flaw in the American Death Star. It doesn’t know how to turn the cameras off, even when it’s filming its own demise.
This, I think, too, is also what Ron Ramsey gets. It’s why he’s working so hard to entrench Republican power. He knows that the powerful are lazy and decadent and that it annoys the less powerful.
I’m worried Trump could win, but I agree with Taibbi that it is, in part, because he understood the system the way a con artist does and exploits the system’s weaknesses like a con artist can. And I’m genuinely not sure that there’s anyone who will learn how to plug the holes from this experience.
Today the kids came over and took Sonnyboy out in the yard to… I don’t even know how to describe it… kind of play with him. They weren’t sure how to play with him. He wasn’t sure how to play with them. They screamed a lot and threw his bone in the air and ran around. He ran around a lot and jumped in the air (though not anywhere near where the bone was) when they threw the bone.
It looked like some weird dance.
And now he’s wiped out.
I wonder if he’s ever played with kids before? I mean, before we got him.
What a waste of a good dog. Every minute he wasn’t in a house where he was adored, it was such a waste.