There are no bad owners, only bad dogs



Everyone I know has Big Drama going right now! I, on the other hand, do not. I am as reassuringly dull today as I was yesterday. Although today was bonus payout day, so I am a bit less poor. If I could actually spend some of the income I work hard to get, it would probably be on a new couch to replace the couch Katy ate. I would not even fritter away my cash on a new loveseat to replace the one Katy ate. I could also use a new stove, a washer and dryer, and a new laptop. My life is without drama, but it is held together with string and baling wire. I am one major appliance away from being Amish against my will.

I am taking Ph. D. classes and today had to read an article that I didn't understand at all. I registered in the Moron Hall of Fame. Of course, the article was translated from Finnish, which may have caused some of the trouble, and it was about something I don't give a rat's ass about, which also may have contributed. I highlighted random bits and pieces of it, and I am hoping that I managed to actually hit a meaningful phrase or two. Like I care about pedagogical ethics or the difference between education and pedagogy. I don't know what those things are, so how can I care? I need a book called Research for Dummies. Then I need someone to explain it to me. Then I need the Reader's Digest version. Then I need a drink.

This morning, Buster actually raised his paw when I said "Shake!" This almost never happens, because he knows he'll get the treat one way or the other. But he did it today, although his face had the same expression that you see on grainy black and white archival photographs of the downtrodden. "Why must I suffer so just for a Snausage? Must you humiliate me just for your own entertainment? If you prick me, do I not bleed?" Meanwhile, Katy is leaping around like a monkey, her paw doing a sort of "Heil Snausage!! Heil Snausage!!" motion so quickly it's a blur. Buster just heaves a deep, sorrowful sigh, makes his eyes extra hound-doggy, and raises his right paw an inch off the floor. Then, as if to prove that I haven't broken his will, he takes the Snausage between his incisors, carefully avoiding contact between his tongue and the Snausage, and spits it onto the floor, making a "Ptooey" sound as he does it. Then he waits til I walk away and eats it, unless Katy has managed to dash under his chin and steal it.

See? That's the drama in my life. No job offers for me to agonize over. No broken friendships to puzzle through. No divorces, no cute/cranky/charming/foulmouthed toddlers to report on. Well, I am trying to get LaZBoy fired, but it's mostly by using the Jedi mind trick.

I have read over and over and over (and I believe it) that one shouldn't blog about work or one may get Dooced, but it's just so tempting. I like my job, I work with the most neurotic people on Earth, they are always doing such dopey stuff -- how can that be forbidden?

Last night Katy ate a stress ball and a stick of butter. That should be fun to dig out of someone's lawn with a grocery bag/glove.

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birth & death