Harry has been diagnosed as either having pug encephalitis or hydrocephalus, both of which cause neurological problems and are degenerative diseases. His legs gave out yesterday; he couldn’t stand. He’s on prednisone right now and is doing a little better, but is still very wobbly. I’m too upset to write any more.
Yesterday was a momentous occasion: Steve came to the blog.
To be fair, I had sent him a link to a Harry pic. But once here, he scrolled through and saw that I had posted his birthday print long before his birthday. He started laughing. “Did you post that because you knew I would never look?”
The thing is, Steve thinks I’m a freak for having a blog at all. He says he’s weirded out about being mentioned up here, which I guess I can understand. Not, of course, that I pay a whit of attention. I post away happily, ignoring his wishes in the matter. After all, that’s what a good relationship is all about, right? Right? Hello?
In any case, when I got back from the Dogoween debacle this afternoon, I tossed the bag of freebie treats they gave us on the dining room table. At some point, Steve said, “Oh my GOD, this is so disgusting. What IS it?!?”
I looked over. He was holding the the bag. “You ate dog treats?!”
“Oh my God, I think I’m going to puke,” he moaned. “I thought it was beef jerky.”
“You ate dog treats!!” I started shaking with laughter.
“Just kidding,” he said, tossing them at me. “I got you going, didn’t I? And all you could think was what a great blog entry it would be. Weren’t you?”
Mea culpa.
“That is the lamest Yoda costume I’ve ever seen,” Steve informed me after I had painted Harry with green food coloring, garbed him in burlap, and stuck one of those glow in the dark tubes in his belt as a light saber.
I have to admit he was right. Despite all my planning, I hadn’t gotten around to getting the stuff beforehand. Still, we ambled down to Dogoween . It was a nightmare of too many people, too many dogs, and too many people and dogs on the loudspeaker. We came home instead. Harry ripped off the costume. Now he’s sitting in the yard, hoping the green wears off.
Pig ears are totally disgusting, but His Royal Furriness loves them so …
I disturbed His Royal Furriness’ nap; he looked so cute sleeping on sun-warmed leaves and I couldn’t resist snapping a picture.
It was Steve’s birthday on Monday, which means that last week was his “birthday week” and last weekend was his “birthday weekend.” Essentially what this means is that I’m supposed to do whatever his little heart desires.
His little heart desired a surfing/camping weekend. So we packed up the gear and the dog and went to Short Sands to camp. It was wet and cold, but we still had a great time. Among other things, a helicopter came in to rescue two people stranded on the side of a cliff at high tide. It was very exciting. Oh yeah, and two crazy young guys threw off all their clothes and went running into the surf. There was a family sitting next to us — a couple our age and a set of parents — and the very well-dressed, well-preserved mother had her binoculars trained on them as they emerged from the ocean naked as jaybirds. She was riveted.
His Royal Furriness spent most of the time (when he wasn’t being attacked by sneaker waves) trolling up and down the beach for people who would exclaim how cute he was and pet him. As usual, he succeeded.
Which is the best chick lit, I think.
Wonderboy, Fiona Gibson — Couple with child move to the country, grow apart, wife comes into own.
Playing James, Sarah Mason — Intrepid reporter gets assigned to cover a detective. They hate each other. They think.
Society Girls, Sarah Mason — The reporter’s sister gets fired from her art appraisal job, moves home, becomes embroiled in a crime saga … and discovers the guy next door.
One either waxes rhapsodic over Coetzee or one … does not. And I’m not really sure how I felt about Elizabeth Costello, his latest novel. Though novel seems too strong a word for loosely jointed series of lectures.
For a series of lectures it is, told in turn through the lectures of fictional novelist Elizabeth Costello. Costello is famed for her feminist portrayal of Molly Bloom. Although she has written other novels, this is the one for which she is remembered–and she rather resents it. Costello is, as even her son says, a poor speaker: she alienates her audience, talks down to them … and yet, as the novel progresses, we move from disliking her to having a certain sympathy for a woman nearing the end of her life.
As I said, I’m not sure how I felt about this book. Didactic and pedantic as Costello is, infuriating as she may be, there is still no question about the response Coetzee elicits from his readers. At the same time, I have to question the point. And perhaps, so does he.
I sent Steve a Friendster invite; he sent me this:
Hi Babydoll,
You have pretty eyes and look really good, I already feel a connection.I love Indian food, poetry in bed, sensitive doggies, and would love to just listen in front of the fire to what you did during the day.
Sound interesting? You can contact me at yourboyfriendsafattie.com
I guess that means he’s not joining.