spaazliciousWednesday, March 16, 2005
DOGS FOR SALE: or why I should never go out
See also: "jinxing oneself."
The local knitting meetup was tonight, and at one point I found myself burbling about Paras newstand on 30th. "They have everything," I said. Yeah, then I walked over and didn't find anything.
So I shouldn't have laughingly said anything about my dogs and their adventures with wool. Because it meant I came home to this:
Okay.
It's no longer funny when I've picked up almost every beautifully prepared and aligned fiber I had piece by shreddy-little-piece from the floor.
All my beautiful Pima cotton, the yak, the soft and fine 80s merino wool, the merino & possum blend my Mom brought me from New Zealand for a sweater for Nick (all that brown stuff on the deck...where the dogs pee and poop. They're not supposed to there, but obviously, they don't care about what they're supposed to do).
I came closer to striking them than I ever have, and that fact made me more upset than anything.
After all, it's only fiber. And it must be my fault for not making sure the door to the stash room was firmly and securely fastened against toothy invaders.
But now I get to monitor bowel movements, liquid and solid intake, because not only could they have done substantial damage to my fiber stash, but they may have swallowed enough in shredding and playing to cause an obstruction. Meaning costly surgery. Yay.
[whiny aside:]They have so many toys, there was a bag of food in the room with the wool, they obviously destroyed a package and then returned for more...what the hell?!?[/whiny aside]
Nick blames it on Jasper.
He makes an easy scapegoat since he's the foster kid, plus his farts will clear a room, peel paint, burn nosehairs, whatever hyperbole you care to use when describing noxious anally-emanated gaseous excretions.
Anyway. I'm self-medicating with a bottle of Red Trolley Ale and the new Tori Amos album.
And memories and expectations of a better day. A dog beach day.
Anticipation.
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The local knitting meetup was tonight, and at one point I found myself burbling about Paras newstand on 30th. "They have everything," I said. Yeah, then I walked over and didn't find anything.
So I shouldn't have laughingly said anything about my dogs and their adventures with wool. Because it meant I came home to this:
Okay.
It's no longer funny when I've picked up almost every beautifully prepared and aligned fiber I had piece by shreddy-little-piece from the floor.
All my beautiful Pima cotton, the yak, the soft and fine 80s merino wool, the merino & possum blend my Mom brought me from New Zealand for a sweater for Nick (all that brown stuff on the deck...where the dogs pee and poop. They're not supposed to there, but obviously, they don't care about what they're supposed to do).
I came closer to striking them than I ever have, and that fact made me more upset than anything.
After all, it's only fiber. And it must be my fault for not making sure the door to the stash room was firmly and securely fastened against toothy invaders.
But now I get to monitor bowel movements, liquid and solid intake, because not only could they have done substantial damage to my fiber stash, but they may have swallowed enough in shredding and playing to cause an obstruction. Meaning costly surgery. Yay.
[whiny aside:]They have so many toys, there was a bag of food in the room with the wool, they obviously destroyed a package and then returned for more...what the hell?!?[/whiny aside]
Nick blames it on Jasper.
He makes an easy scapegoat since he's the foster kid, plus his farts will clear a room, peel paint, burn nosehairs, whatever hyperbole you care to use when describing noxious anally-emanated gaseous excretions.
Anyway. I'm self-medicating with a bottle of Red Trolley Ale and the new Tori Amos album.
And memories and expectations of a better day. A dog beach day.
Anticipation.
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