D's away at a summer institute at Ohio State. Has been for almost a
week. There's nobody to talk to around here till she gets back next
week. Jeeze, I've been married a long time and it's starting to show.

The dogs are following me around like I'm the canine messiah. I guess
it's because I'm marginally smarter than they are and I feed them. If
they had opposable thumbs, it would be a different story. Lefty, the
long haired dachshund, barfed twice this afternoon and his breath
reeks of something dead he got into out back. I haven't found the
dead something yet. He might have eaten all of it. He's going to
want to sleep with me tonight. The souls of the dammed in the furnace
of hell want glasses of iced tea, too.

So I'm making dinner tonight, trying not to think about doing the
dog-towel laundry that must be done, and Lefty's at my feet, waiting
for stuff to fall so he can scarf it. Dogs. Anyhow, he gags once.
Twice. Thrice. I'm saying to him: "It's the dead shit you ate. Don't
eat dead shit." Saying it like he comprehends more English than
"dinner" and "outside," and "where's your baby?" Well he does get
"Drop it!" When he's in the mood to. But admonitions about proper
dietary considerations and eating dead shit aren't ever going to have
any behavioral effects. His wee brain ain't wired robustly enough for
that.

Talking to Lefty is, however, often more effective (or at least more
satisfying) than talking to Roscoe, who is old, almost deaf, mostly
blind and toothless. Also he has a heart condition and what the vet
calls "compromised kidneys." Also he seizes up several times a day
when something he isn't expecting looms into view. A screen door, for
example. His wee brain seems to short circuit and he comes down with
the blind staggers. The vet says it's a form of dementia. We rescued
Roscoe almost 15 years ago. He's what they call a rat terrier mix.

Molly is the dog we inherited when D's mom passed away. She's a lanky
strawberry blond mutt with a funny face and a funny gait. Her face is
funny because of her black button eyes and black button nose. Her
gait is funny because she looks like a tiny trotter horse when she
patrols the back yard in the morning. Molly's okay, except that the
day after D left I had to trim the hairs around her anus for hygienic
reasons that I've already said too much about. If you get my drift.

We have too many dogs. And they have too many issues.

I have to wash my hands a lot because of them.

Dinner: homemade pizza with Point Reyes bleu cheese, chopped red
onion, olive oil and anchovy paste, and fresh basil leaves. On the
side: a salad of chopped watermelon, chopped avocado, and chopped
mango. Dressed with an olive oil, lime, serrano chile, and cilantro
vinaigrette.

A word about the basil: it volunteered this spring out in the
vegetable patch. Last year I planted holy basil, Thai basil, and some
other variety that I don't remember. What sprouted this spring was
the product of some seriously randomized cross-pollination. Even my
basil is a mutt.
--
modom

"It's almost too late to be early."
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