Nom de Plume

Apparently, it’s not hard to put dirty dishes in the sink but it’s next to impossible to put them in the dishwasher.

I lost it last night. I am tired of doing all the housework: mopping, scrubbing the bathroom, cleaning the kitchen. This morning, having come to the conclusion that Steve and I have much better things to fight about, I contacted a bunch of housecleaners posted on Craig’s List for rates, references, etc. I don’t think Steve is going to be happy about this, but tough.

“I bought a present …” Steve announced last night as he walked through the door with his bulging PCC bags.

“Oh goody!” said I, expecting a smelly soap or candle, or even, God forbid, flowers.

“…for the dog.”

Like men everywhere, Steve is currently defending the rights of the penis, whether his, some other guy’s, or the dog’s. “What do you mean he’s going to fixed?” he screeched when I told him Harry P. would go under the knife in about a month.

“He needs to be fixed.”

“But we could breed him!”

“Does the world really need another freaky looking dog?” I asked.

“I wanted to breed him with a German Shepherd!!”

“I don’t believe in that indiscriminate breeding. There are too many unloved puppies in the world as it is.”

“It wouldn’t be indiscriminate,” he retorted. “I would choose a German Shepherd I liked.”

According to this review, “Thackeray’s fans will want to see the film out of curiosity,” but I’m wondering whether I should bother.

Harry P. is not completely potty-trained–or as I say in front of him and Steve makes fun of me, P-O-T-T-Y. So he now has a crate, and is about to be officially crate-trained. He wasn’t too happy when I lured him in there for an hour on Saturday with a handful of treats, but when I got back, was happily snoozing. He’s a good sleeper.

We also went to the vet–no chip, he’s five months, and has ear mites. The vet wants a stool sample, which is probably wise because who knows what he’s gotten from eating it. Yes, our dog has a very unfortunate habit of eating excrement. He makes do with his own, but prefers that generated by other animals. I am totally grossed out.

Then, coffee with Leslie and then Elizabeth and I walked around Seward Park. Her puppy Koya and Harry P. got on like guns afire. Yesterday, Steve and I spent the entire day in the Jeep as we scoped out surfing spots on the Strait of San Juan de Fuca. Now Monday morning, and must get dressed and go to work.

I’m a little worried about crating Harry all day.

O’Neill argues that the movie Super Size Me is less about food and more about snobbery. Can’t argue he’s wrong. Food–and its subsequent padding–has always been a class issue.

Harry is undecided about the stone beaches at Seward Park.

It all started with an inadvertent swim in the plink. Steve and I did the Seward Park loop with Harry on his new retractable leash. S was walking on a narrow stone embankment; Harry and I were on the trail, which was up a grassy incline. Missing Steve, Harry went hurtling down the incline so fast that he disappeared with a splash. I ran down, and there he was up to his belly in lake water and looking very, very surprised.

And then he turned away and started swimming in little circles!

I was pretty surprised considering that these dogs — at least according to what I’ve read — don’t swim. We hauled him up. Steve noted that with the two of us, he should be a swimmer, but Harry avoided puddles the rest of the walk. And he really didn’t like the stone beaches on the other side of the park despite our best efforts.

He did the walk like a champ though. Steve even held the leash, even though he keeps on saying this is my dog and that he wouldn’t be caught walking him in public because–oh horrors!–people might think he was gay. Towards the end of the loop, Harry started dragging tail so I tucked him under my arm. Steve looked over at me.

“Do you want me to carry him?”

“No, I’ve got him. Unless you want to carry him?”

“No, I just thought maybe you wanted me to.”

We walked ten more steps. Steve looked at me sideways.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to carry him?”

“Do you want to?” I asked.

“Are you kidding? A freaky little dog like that? That’s just what I need.”

“You want to carry him,” I stated. Ignoring his protests, I thrust Harry into his arms. Steve flipped him on his back and carried him like a baby.

“I look ridiculous,” he grumbled, and happily let Harry lick his face.