I lost my Moleskine* notebook yesterday, which is where I write down all the random thoughts that end up keeping me organized and giving me recall of the things which irritated me enough to want to whinge out my irrelevant disdain about them to whatever part of the internet feels like paying attention. (Wow. Heck of a run-on sentence there... but, precocious lad that I was, I wrote those at an advanced grade level when I was already quite young.)
I know. It’s not really a problem, but it bothered me.
So I have nothing that strikes me as being particularly interesting to say anymore. That is based, naturally, on the pompous premise that I had anything interesting to say to start with. (Should that read “…with which to start”? Possibly, but that’s just a little too awkward, so we’re finishin’ with the danglin' preposition on the end of the sentence, because I’m that much of a rebel, Dottie.)
Tigger and I, as well as Tigger’s parents, are going through the Adirondacks to look for places to make an honest woman out of her, and hopefully not get dragged bodily into the pit of jackals that is the American Wedding Juggernaut. Apparently one needs to have welcome gifts and party favors. I hold that if I’m a party to feeding people, and doing grievous damage to their livers, they don’t need a party favor, they just need alka seltzer and possibly some sunglasses, or a blood transfusion. I am learning to accommodate in these matters.
However, that’s not how it’s done, and I am willing to work with that.
Gojira is coming as well, hopefully not to any kind of ill effect for him or us. We’re having to bring his crate with us, which is a mammoth affair.
When you read this, or when you get home (oh wonderful hypothetical folkses) do me a favor:
Take out a tape measure and pace out a space somewhere in your house which measures 48 inches long, by 30 inches wide, by 32 inches high (if you aren’t able to pace vertically, just try and imagine it). Here's what we have... just look for the BIGGEST one they have, and you’ll have an image of what contains all the lolloping, smelly love we are blessed with.
That’s what we have in our kitchen currently. It makes our rolling, full-size dishwasher look like a twee little breadbox, and while Gojira has a divider to shrink off where he can giddily pee all over his bedding, he still takes up a gargantuan piece of real estate. Oh, he does still enjoy a good old-fashioned crate-pissing sesh’, but his indulging of that hobby has become markedly less common.**
This wire behemoth is making its way to the Northwoods with us, and we are optimistic that we will have some room to put a toothbrush and perhaps a change of underwear for each of us somewhere in the car. The other option is that we bung him into the thing for the trip with the seats folded down. Not sure whether that that would even fit in the Subaru, but I’m seriously considering it. Perhaps we could strap him, in the crate, to the roofrack? Would that cause problems with the authorities? I can only assume that having that much wind in one’s furry face would be the dog equivalent of freebase, nose-wise, but there are no doubt other stodgy folks who would consider it irresponsible. Fine then. Rob my dog of a spectacularly intense experience if you’re going to be that way. Jerks.
We’re getting the wind in our noses, the three of us, and will “see” you all back here in a few days.
*“Moleskine – the only tiny little notebook pretentious enough to think that you need to read it’s history, which we put in every damn one we sell.” They do, however, have a tremendously easy feel especially when writing with a fountain pen, so if I’m going to roll with pretentious, I… could… go… ALL. THE. WAY.
**Once recently I can’t blame him for, though it was pretty spectacular to come home to: the dog walker had her sister come “slightly later” to take him out (as she had National Guard Reserve training), and she must not have noticed that he had burst a seal in the crate (euphemism for: “peeing all over the plot”), and put him back in after a walk and feeding, to the joys of a soaking wet dog bed. He responded by attempting to dig through the dog bed to find clean bedding (tearing the zipper and seam) and then nosing up through the top bars of the crate to grab the uncovered cushion for his larger, nicer dog bed, teasing it down to wrap around the foot of the crate, and then tearing off postage-stamp sized pieces of bed cover until there was a snowy wonderland all over him and the kitchen. He may also have eaten a fair bit of stuffing. That’s my boy!
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