First run since I got sick with that hideous stomach bug last week. It felt amazing. I’ve grown addicted to the endorphins, and Miss B was glad to get out and try to catch a few schoolbuses. I mean, I have no idea what she would do if she actually managed to catch one. But her silly dog ass just sees a yellow bus and every circuit in her silly dog head fuses. *sigh* At least it makes things interesting, and with last night’s hard rain there was plenty of agility training to be had, what with leaping downed branches and dodging deep still ponds made by backed-up storm drains. Now she’s passed out next to my office chair, sleeping the sleep of the righteous-chaser-of-buses.
Odd Trundles, however, is having somewhat of a rough day. He’s been scolded twice for Doing What He Shouldn’t, and is quite put out that I won’t let him bark at the neighbors or eat my pillow. Christ, I don’t know what it is, but maybe my sleepy head smell drives him mad. He keeps trying to down my favourite pillow whole. And then there’s his constant alerts.
You see, Odd is not a fan of change. Any change. At all. If I put a basket of laundry on the couch instead of on the chair, he absolutely loses his shit. Barking, growling, snapping–anything new or moved to a different place is a Danger What Must Be Yapped At. I finally unpacked some boxes in my bedroom yesterday and guess what? ODD TO THE RESCUE! He would tear into my room, look wildly about, put his head down and his nether end up as high as it would go, and commence making enough noise to bring a whole cavalry charge over a hill. Even this morning he was trying to climb atop the small altar in my room and eat my tarot cards.
If I have to buy another Rider-Waite deck, I shall scold him most thoroughly. You’d think he’d try to eat one of his various toys–which he scatters around the house carefully, then gets scared and affronted if they’re moved by anything other than his silly little snout–instead. But NOOOOOO, he’ll eat books, pencils, plants, silverware (don’t ask), cat litter, bark, small rocks, drywall (don’t ask), socks, Legos–you know, I should just say that pretty much the things he won’t eat are, as a rule, too high for him to reach. And the bitter apple spray supposed to discourage him from trying to consume things like, oh, his dog bed and cardboard boxes? It’s like steak sauce. He can’t get enough of the stuff.
*sigh* Odd Trundles, the gourmet. You’d think we never feed him, but his girth shows he’s getting calories from somewhere. Maybe it’s the books on the French Revolution he ate. I should call him Robespierre. Or maybe Danton, except he’s not bright enough for that moniker even if there is a certain physical resemblance…
He just finished rearranging the office, threw himself down on the carpet, and began to snore. One thing about this bulldog puppy (Christ, he’s almost a year old now, how on earth did that happen?), he never does anything halfway. It’s all done with gusto, and with complete abandon.
I like that about him. Most of the time.
So anyway, I’ve got Carlos Gardel wailing his tangos on the stereo, the kitchen is clean, my cardiovascular health and ninja training mostly attended to for the day, and now it’s time to play some hooky with the story I’ve titled, gleefully, Woodchipper Zombie.
Things are looking up.