of 2012
December 29, 2011
ROBOTS:
Do you ever wonder why exactly we're doing this whatever it is that we're doing? Why we bleat our ineffectually tiny lamb-words out into the vast uncaring womb of the sky? What could we possibly hope to accomplish that hasn't already been accomplished by someone who already looks more like a lamb than I will look in twelve hours? Or is it all just for self satisfaction?
Is there any such thing?
In the essential Creativ Person™neurosis guidebook we come upon the proverbial dark cavern of bone-squiggling despair. "And lo, thou shalt covet thy peer's impressive talents and be held down amongst the reeds; you cannot do again what they have already done more awesomely. You should still probably try. Probably."
-- Proverbs 3:25-2
The very most stalwart Creativ Person™would like you to think that this bone-squiggling despair does not exist, that it is only a dark-shadowed rumor Emily Dickinson started. PS, what a dick. This is, however, incorrect. Your local Creativ Person™is attempting to wool you into thinking that they don't care what you think, something which could be no further from the truth than Family Dinner.
The reality is that bone-squiggling despair is out there waiting, poised and pistoned, whether your most beloved Creativ Person™succumbs to it daily or only once or never or bi-weekly or over yonder bitsly. It's waiting and it wants meats in its MOUTHS. The only option is to flee, isn't it?
WRONG.
I like shouting hopelessly into the sky.
See you in 2012.
with love,
jamie
Do you ever wonder why exactly we're doing this whatever it is that we're doing? Why we bleat our ineffectually tiny lamb-words out into the vast uncaring womb of the sky? What could we possibly hope to accomplish that hasn't already been accomplished by someone who already looks more like a lamb than I will look in twelve hours? Or is it all just for self satisfaction?
Is there any such thing?
In the essential Creativ Person™neurosis guidebook we come upon the proverbial dark cavern of bone-squiggling despair. "And lo, thou shalt covet thy peer's impressive talents and be held down amongst the reeds; you cannot do again what they have already done more awesomely. You should still probably try. Probably."
-- Proverbs 3:25-2
The very most stalwart Creativ Person™would like you to think that this bone-squiggling despair does not exist, that it is only a dark-shadowed rumor Emily Dickinson started. PS, what a dick. This is, however, incorrect. Your local Creativ Person™is attempting to wool you into thinking that they don't care what you think, something which could be no further from the truth than Family Dinner.
The reality is that bone-squiggling despair is out there waiting, poised and pistoned, whether your most beloved Creativ Person™succumbs to it daily or only once or never or bi-weekly or over yonder bitsly. It's waiting and it wants meats in its MOUTHS. The only option is to flee, isn't it?
WRONG.
I like shouting hopelessly into the sky.
See you in 2012.
with love,
jamie
patience quietly waits
December 27, 2011
Guys. Guys. Guuuyyyyyyys.
I could not be more excited to share how the Jude's Christmas went with you. WITH THE WORLD. Best ever? Yes.
–But that won't be today. It will be worth the wait.
I could not be more excited to share how the Jude's Christmas went with you. WITH THE WORLD. Best ever? Yes.
–But that won't be today. It will be worth the wait.
Meanwhile, in Whoville:
Naps were taken.
Kitty-cat masks were made!
And, you know, more naps.
The electricity went out.
And then came back on! Only 7 hours later! ROBOTS!
Followed by {so much} eating...
...and more naps.
Peace.
Naps were taken.
Kitty-cat masks were made!
And, you know, more naps.
The electricity went out.
And then came back on! Only 7 hours later! ROBOTS!
Followed by {so much} eating...
...and more naps.
Peace.
that sounds like idiot talk
December 21, 2011
Last night we were picking up our final Crimblemas accouterments at the store, in the rain, because GOD won't it ever stop raining? The rain! DIE, rain! I asked Siri about it and she was all, "Oh you think this is bad, dude? Wait until Christmas. It's going to be A Wintery Mix up in your piece, and I don't mean a euphemism for sexy relations the way you usually mean it. It's going to rain and then freeze and your dogs will fall down on the deck after their legs whirl here to and fro like spiders in rollerskates. WhoooaAAAooooohh! YOU'RE UPSIDEDOWNTURTLE. It's going to be all kinds of rotten bananas." Go back in your hole, Siri. I don't even know what to do with you right now.
The three of us were standing in the kid's section hunting for possible new crimblejams, a family tradition we started a few years ago. Everyone gets new jim-jams on Christmas eve, ones that haven't been worn to bits in the private parts! Jon was hunting in one direction and I in the other, with our cat somewhere between us trapped in the cart. I bring my cat shopping with me because sometimes it's a boy, but right then it was a cat, a dragon cat, and a screechingly realistic "MRROWWW" could be heard all across the aisles. Still though, I felt more successful than the lady who just abandoned her shrieking kid next to the electronics for the duration of our two hour visit. I'm judging you, at least my cat was happy.
I trotted over to look at the sale racks hot on the hunt for a better price on comfy pants and turned to find myself face to face with a bevy of frilly ruffled shirts and dresses. I was adrift. Against my will I picked up a particularly adorable tiny shirt. It was creamy parchment with slate blue stripes and a little flower sewn on to the shoulder. I thought, "Ooooh, look at that!" as I ran my fingers over the soft fabric. "Wait! Why am I holding this?!" And then I was walking over to Jon, with it still in my hands, like some kind of automaton. "BODY!? What are you DOING?! WHAT IS HAPPENING!?"
"I want this."
And I wanted to stab myself just then, but it was like someone else had control of my body. Maybe I wanted to stab that person, stab them dead.
"They don't make that in your size."
"I know."
And I put it back.
The end.
The three of us were standing in the kid's section hunting for possible new crimblejams, a family tradition we started a few years ago. Everyone gets new jim-jams on Christmas eve, ones that haven't been worn to bits in the private parts! Jon was hunting in one direction and I in the other, with our cat somewhere between us trapped in the cart. I bring my cat shopping with me because sometimes it's a boy, but right then it was a cat, a dragon cat, and a screechingly realistic "MRROWWW" could be heard all across the aisles. Still though, I felt more successful than the lady who just abandoned her shrieking kid next to the electronics for the duration of our two hour visit. I'm judging you, at least my cat was happy.
I trotted over to look at the sale racks hot on the hunt for a better price on comfy pants and turned to find myself face to face with a bevy of frilly ruffled shirts and dresses. I was adrift. Against my will I picked up a particularly adorable tiny shirt. It was creamy parchment with slate blue stripes and a little flower sewn on to the shoulder. I thought, "Ooooh, look at that!" as I ran my fingers over the soft fabric. "Wait! Why am I holding this?!" And then I was walking over to Jon, with it still in my hands, like some kind of automaton. "BODY!? What are you DOING?! WHAT IS HAPPENING!?"
"I want this."
And I wanted to stab myself just then, but it was like someone else had control of my body. Maybe I wanted to stab that person, stab them dead.
"They don't make that in your size."
"I know."
And I put it back.
The end.
I just can't get enough...
December 19, 2011
of these sweetie babies:
And of this face (ha!):
And this one (they are equally displeased with me, evidently):
This one? I could probably live without:
Pest.
And of this face (ha!):
And this one (they are equally displeased with me, evidently):
This one? I could probably live without:
Pest.
Jamie the human, are you worthy to command me?
This happened. Merry Christlemas to me and/or us and to all a very happy moons!
I'm excited, of course, but also I feel dumb telling anyone I'm excited because it's a phone. But you know what? For that much money I had damn well better be excited and I'm not sorry. PARTY AT MY PHONE! UNDERPANTSERANSELARY!
My last phone, a poor pathetic dinosaur of a refurbished first-gen iphone, was dubbed the very suitable name 'The Flying Dutchman.' I say suitable because I assume there was a good reason for that decision. Ass, you, me. What was that very good reason? I can't for the life of me recall. It was obviously very meaningful and important. Something about once you pop you just can't stop? The arms that grip you down to the seas? Beware the smoking kracken that comes with the blood moon? Who knows, now I'm just making shit up. Whole minutes of googling went by and I uncovered no answers as to the name's mysterious origins so I threw the damned thing in the trash and moved on. (Not really. I did something worse, I gave it to my kid so he could do flashcards. Welcome to the 24.5th century.)
The Flying Dutchman was a dear dear thing, precious to my heart. Not only did it allow me to blog on the go, read my RSS, talk to my friends in my pocket, and take photos– it also made me a sith lord. Now I'm not one to look a gift horse inside its face but round about a few months back my poor tired darling sort of... stopped working. I mean really, really, stopped working like an aging receptionist with the poop-pants. No buttons. No camera. Black screen. Dear Apple: There's this thing called backwards compatibility. Think about it. It was time for the Dutchman to find sleep in davy's locker and after waiting, and waiting, and waiting for our contract to expire it has now been (finally) replaced with the new and the shiny. Saturday.
I RIDE THE WINDS OF NIGHT AGAIN!
(This is a weird possibly disinteresting story, but in this new-fangled technitweetsical age phones have become more than just telephones. Part of me hates to admit that my phone is pretty much my lifeline and that without its vital operation I was dying a slow death. The other part of me is already dead. I think they call that part the 'soul.')
(PS have I mentioned I'm excited and probably soulless?)
And so we welcome our new overlord.
Welcome Ancient Psychic Tandem War Elephant.
I promise I'll remember why your name is awesome.
And really, how could that need explanation at all?
(This is a weird possibly disinteresting story, but in this new-fangled technitweetsical age phones have become more than just telephones. Part of me hates to admit that my phone is pretty much my lifeline and that without its vital operation I was dying a slow death. The other part of me is already dead. I think they call that part the 'soul.')
(PS have I mentioned I'm excited and probably soulless?)
And so we welcome our new overlord.
Welcome Ancient Psychic Tandem War Elephant.
I promise I'll remember why your name is awesome.
And really, how could that need explanation at all?
and the winner is...
December 16, 2011
Alright, the way I see it the only way to do this is to rip the bandaid right off–
Congratulations @That_Biz!
The fingerless-floppers are yours.
(This was an especially painful thing to orchestrate because I want to give ALL of you mittens and I want to leave no friend behind. The good news is I've been knitting so much I have blisters. There will be more knits to re-home in the near future. Non-winners, you will not be forgotten. Kiss kiss.)
Secular Christmas: much worse than ogres
December 15, 2011
Christmas is confusing for me. I mean look, on the one hand, I really enjoy the holiday season. I like the lights, the smells, the food, the good will and good cheer, even the snow. I have magical memories of Christmas' celebrated through childhood. The tree, the cookies, the reindeer, damn it all I grew up doing that stuff and I want to my son to have similar warm glowing memories. Now that I've reproduced the magic of the holidays is back in full force with a knife to my throat muttering, "and we will have FUN, or else."
On the other hand, the whole "reason for the season" thing ie, tiny little (probably not born in December) Jesus, is not part of my personal strawberry jam. Is it disingenuous if I still choose to celebrate Christmas with my family, knowing full well that I don't give two craps about that other part that we're just going to gloss over here yes quickly moving on? I don't just mean 'celebrating Christmas' in some sort of vague way, either, I mean belting out "Away in a Manger" without guilt or shame, because I LIKE THAT SONG even the Jesus parts. And we have a nativity! Sure, it may be populated by squids, but it's under our tree all the same. Do my ambiguous feelings about it even really matter, since I've happily spent the last 28 years enjoying myself some deliciously warm and fuzzy Secular Christmas?
Squidtivity. This exists.
Yes, the dreaded Secular Christmas. Is such a thing possible? Inarguably so. It's alarming easy to slice and dice Christmas to leave behind the religious trappings, a fact which horrifies some and eases the conflicted lives of others. More importantly– is such a thing acceptable in a society where atheists and rapists are nearly equally distrusted? It's one thing to do Santa with your kids and throw in your obligatory once-a-year church visit, quite another to announce you're skipping the 'our Fathers' on purpose.
As I get older I feel less and less miffed about the whole thing. Live and let live! I'm so glad that works for you and brings you peace. Now I'mma do my own thing. We cool? We cool. I can see from others perspectives and accept that different beliefs work for them, they don't necessarily need to work for me– the trick is hoping they can do the same in return. People aren't always comfortable enough with themselves to let that happen, but for the most part I don't associate with jerks so it's not an issue.
Still though, the holiday season is one of those times when this delicate dance can become infinitely more complex because we all celebrate in visible ways that push our differences further to the forefront than they are at most other times of the year. Modern commercialism is partly to blame for thrusting SANTA GIFTS CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS into our faces every three seconds in an effort to promote buying more things. Who likes this? No one. Can we all agree that buying stuff is not the end-goal? I mean gifts are nice, but it's not really what it's all about. Agreed? Fist bumps.
Rather than nitpick about the differences between the way we celebrate it would be more beneficial to focus on the things that most of us can agree on. Christmas does have some universal ideals– love, family, giving, the vast untapped potential goodness of humanity. Seeing strangers perform random acts of kindness around the holidays warms up my soul down to the little bitty parts I thought I'd forgotten. That's what it's all about. That brand of selfless spirit is pure magic no matter who/what inspires it. Giving. Helping. Caring. In my mind that's the redeeming value that Christmas has to offer even the most stringently secular among us. Secular Christmas is certainly not the same as religious Christmas, but it isn't all bad either. Perhaps we can find unity once a year in not being jerks. Probably not, but you know, good effort team. Annnnnnnd, break!
How does your family celebrate the holidays? And just for fun, what's the first thing you think of when you think 'Christmas?'
Me, honestly? –HOW MANY OF THOSE COOKIES CAN I FIT IN MY MOUF RIGHT NOW GARAHARAGGGHH. Answer: –A lot.
everything small is just a small version of something big- now you understand everything!
December 13, 2011
Dear Jude,
825 days, 19,805 hours. That's how long you've been with us, on the outside anyway. I had to do much the maths because I've kind of stopped counting. It's a largish number, even though it only adds up to 2.25 years, but the largishness suits you. It feels like you've always been here. I don't mean 'you' like your physical form, or 'you' like your mythical presence as part of our family, I mean YOU, with the sass and the so spice and the kitty cat noises. The infant we cared for two years ago was a stranger, a blob, a nothing. And then there was you. This is how it is supposed to be. Everything makes so much more sense now.
You continuously seem older than your scant years. You talk maturely, clearly and often. Maybe it's just a side effect of first-time-mom that I have nothing to compare it to, but you feel like just another one of us humans instead of something newly minted and pressed. Welcome to the collective, fellow human, all your base are belong to us. And if you have no idea why that is funny I have failed you.
You've spent a significant amount of time lately being a kitty cat, something I remember doing as a child too, though not one this young. You show deep commitment to the character, responding to all questions only with varying inflections of 'meow.' Let no one ever accuse you of not being dedicated to a good cause*. "Hi fireman!" "What's your name?" "I a kitty named kitty." No creativity points for you, minus 5.
You're starting to remember things with startling accuracy, all the more surprising because before this moment we were able to assume every adventure was a blank slate wiped clean. Now you call for ice cream at the IKEA checkout before we get in sight of the counters from the one time we had ice cream there months ago. You wake up in the morning asking about Unc' Joe and Kayla. You call Grandma on the telephone. It's rather astounding and if it were up to me I'd enter you into Ripley's Believe It or Not. Incredible! Amazing! Regular kid remembers stuff from weeks ago! It's the dawn of yet another new era, the age of memory. Soon you'll be able to keep them for yourself forever like precious little brain clouds, collected up there for viewing.
Parenting Bonus: You can remember the fun stuff!
Parenting Not Bonus: You can remember when we screw stuff up.
I guess the first two years were just practice rounds so we could get our shit together before you could remember. BRING OUT THE A-GAME, this just got real.
They say that by five most of a person's personality is already formed. I think I can do them one better. I can see exactly what you'll be right at this second. Here at two the view is nice. Eleven year old Jude will be challenging, too smart to fall for our tricks. Twenty year old Jude will get serious about doing things.
I want to say that I don't expect you to be anything but yourself but it would be naive to say that I don't have a general sort of idea in my head of what you'll be like. The good news for you is that those ideas are just fleeting pictures in my head and you get to make the reality. None of that probably makes any sense to you, but it makes sense to adult me. We can talk about it later, over the beers.
A shift is happening. No more am I the ultimate being of food and comfort,
more and more now we walk side by side.
Have fun.
All my love,
mama
825 days, 19,805 hours. That's how long you've been with us, on the outside anyway. I had to do much the maths because I've kind of stopped counting. It's a largish number, even though it only adds up to 2.25 years, but the largishness suits you. It feels like you've always been here. I don't mean 'you' like your physical form, or 'you' like your mythical presence as part of our family, I mean YOU, with the sass and the so spice and the kitty cat noises. The infant we cared for two years ago was a stranger, a blob, a nothing. And then there was you. This is how it is supposed to be. Everything makes so much more sense now.
You continuously seem older than your scant years. You talk maturely, clearly and often. Maybe it's just a side effect of first-time-mom that I have nothing to compare it to, but you feel like just another one of us humans instead of something newly minted and pressed. Welcome to the collective, fellow human, all your base are belong to us. And if you have no idea why that is funny I have failed you.
You've spent a significant amount of time lately being a kitty cat, something I remember doing as a child too, though not one this young. You show deep commitment to the character, responding to all questions only with varying inflections of 'meow.' Let no one ever accuse you of not being dedicated to a good cause*. "Hi fireman!" "What's your name?" "I a kitty named kitty." No creativity points for you, minus 5.
*"Good cause" being relatively relative. Meow meow meow, meow?
You deemed this pizza roll to be, EW YUCK. I still love you. Mostly.
You deemed this pizza roll to be, EW YUCK. I still love you. Mostly.
You're starting to remember things with startling accuracy, all the more surprising because before this moment we were able to assume every adventure was a blank slate wiped clean. Now you call for ice cream at the IKEA checkout before we get in sight of the counters from the one time we had ice cream there months ago. You wake up in the morning asking about Unc' Joe and Kayla. You call Grandma on the telephone. It's rather astounding and if it were up to me I'd enter you into Ripley's Believe It or Not. Incredible! Amazing! Regular kid remembers stuff from weeks ago! It's the dawn of yet another new era, the age of memory. Soon you'll be able to keep them for yourself forever like precious little brain clouds, collected up there for viewing.
Parenting Bonus: You can remember the fun stuff!
Parenting Not Bonus: You can remember when we screw stuff up.
I guess the first two years were just practice rounds so we could get our shit together before you could remember. BRING OUT THE A-GAME, this just got real.
They say that by five most of a person's personality is already formed. I think I can do them one better. I can see exactly what you'll be right at this second. Here at two the view is nice. Eleven year old Jude will be challenging, too smart to fall for our tricks. Twenty year old Jude will get serious about doing things.
I want to say that I don't expect you to be anything but yourself but it would be naive to say that I don't have a general sort of idea in my head of what you'll be like. The good news for you is that those ideas are just fleeting pictures in my head and you get to make the reality. None of that probably makes any sense to you, but it makes sense to adult me. We can talk about it later, over the beers.
A shift is happening. No more am I the ultimate being of food and comfort,
more and more now we walk side by side.
Have fun.
All my love,
mama
it's all for you
December 12, 2011
I began this blog three years and one month ago with no idea what the hell I was getting into and I still have no idea what the hell I'm doing. Life lesson #1: I probably never will. But there's one thing I'm completely sure about– and that's you, me, and us. One year, one hundred thousand visits from friends.
–Which you know, all the mushy stuff is well and good. And I mean it! I do. The love! I have it in spades full of clubs. Oh blog, let's get married but I'm already married so let's have a torrid steamy affair! But, I've thought of an even better way to let you know I love you than just sucking face. They're grey and soft and appropriately warm but not hot and they can be at your doorstep just in time for the holidays...
(Also, I made them! With my handpaws! Operation learning to knit is full steam ahead in fact I kind of already know how to knit and now I'm just making lots of things!)
I would be delighted, ecstatic, enthused to send these to you!
It's safer than swapping spit and more anonymous. Here's what you need to do:
1. Leave a comment on this post. It could be about giraffes, or how much we love each other, or not. Please use a valid email address so I can contact you if you win.
2. A winner will be drawn using random.org on this Friday, December 16th. I will notify the winner via email. The winner will have 72 hours to claim their mitts before we call a redraw.
But IF that isn't enough, IF you just HAVE to HAVE those fine soft babies here are additional ways to enter. You can do each once for a total of three extra chances:
3. Tweet the following: "Did you know @thegrumbles has the breath of life and a heart of gold? Believe it, she does. Do it for the mittens. http://www.grumblesandgrunts.com"
4. Head over to the grumbles and grunts facebook page and get busy getting chatty. It's quiet and boring over there and I don't like it. Conversation, that's all I'm asking for in 2012.
5. Link to the blog on facebook with the love story of you and I. Leave a comment here saying that you did. Scouts honor.
That's it! Best of luck on your handy-hearty mitten-grabbing.
You are so, so loved.
Thank you.
–Which you know, all the mushy stuff is well and good. And I mean it! I do. The love! I have it in spades full of clubs. Oh blog, let's get married but I'm already married so let's have a torrid steamy affair! But, I've thought of an even better way to let you know I love you than just sucking face. They're grey and soft and appropriately warm but not hot and they can be at your doorstep just in time for the holidays...
(Also, I made them! With my handpaws! Operation learning to knit is full steam ahead in fact I kind of already know how to knit and now I'm just making lots of things!)
I would be delighted, ecstatic, enthused to send these to you!
It's safer than swapping spit and more anonymous. Here's what you need to do:
1. Leave a comment on this post. It could be about giraffes, or how much we love each other, or not. Please use a valid email address so I can contact you if you win.
2. A winner will be drawn using random.org on this Friday, December 16th. I will notify the winner via email. The winner will have 72 hours to claim their mitts before we call a redraw.
(FYI: This is open to all readers, even you Canadian-Mexican-Whereever-else friends.)
But IF that isn't enough, IF you just HAVE to HAVE those fine soft babies here are additional ways to enter. You can do each once for a total of three extra chances:
3. Tweet the following: "Did you know @thegrumbles has the breath of life and a heart of gold? Believe it, she does. Do it for the mittens. http://www.grumblesandgrunts.com"
4. Head over to the grumbles and grunts facebook page and get busy getting chatty. It's quiet and boring over there and I don't like it. Conversation, that's all I'm asking for in 2012.
5. Link to the blog on facebook with the love story of you and I. Leave a comment here saying that you did. Scouts honor.
That's it! Best of luck on your handy-hearty mitten-grabbing.
You are so, so loved.
one dog two dog, old dog new dog
December 9, 2011
It's been almost exactly three months since Harlan T. Pepper came to live with us and left life at the shelter far behind. How is life with our new family member? How does old dog like new dog? How does the Jude like new dog? All this and more on this episode of IT'S FRIDAY AND I LIKE COFFEE! Several of you have asked and as prosaic as it may be poor pathetic sad-eyed Harlan probably deserves an update. Pshhhhhhh. I guess or something.
Yes, all our hopes and dreams came true. Bang and Harlan are in love like long lost soul mates. Personally, I think he's okay. I mean... okay. He's cute. He's gentle. He loves Jude. He's mild mannered... when he isn't chewing and WHINING like a GODDAMN PUPPY GRAH GRRR ARG PUPPIES. He has endearingly long floppy muppet arms. In comparison most days he makes Bang look like a fat little angel but she still close talks like all get out.
With a Harlan T. Pepper Q and the A:
What breed is he?
Harlan is a plott hound, which is a large type of coonhound used for hunting boar. His unusual brindle coat is totally stereotypical plott hound. He is pure bred plott. We discovered he has an identification tattoo on his leg which hunters use to identify their litters. At one point he was somebody's prize hound dog.
How did he end up at the SPCA?
He was brought in after being hit by a car. He spent 3 months recuperating from a skull fracture at the SPCA before he was eligible for adoption and by the time he was healed he was so large (plotts are one of the largest types of hounds) that he had a hard time finding a home. At six months old he looked two or three years. The only giveaway he was a youngin' was his big floppy monster feet.
He still has some lingering side effects from the car accident. His head is very sensitive and his back legs go a little wonky. He may have some brain damage but it's hard to tell for sure. In some ways he is incredibly smart (learning to sit, walking on a leash) but he has a few tics that indicate he might not be all there.
Why is he named Harlan T. Pepper?
Unrelated:
RAWR I A LION.
Any questions?
Harlan is now ten(ish) months old and skinny as a sack of bones. Growing ones.
This is life with Harlan in a nutshell:
"I just *love* puppies!" - Jon
On the other hand, there's this:
...and this and this and this and this and this:
If you were wondering if they like each other (or if they are lazy)
the answer is NO, not at all.
Lest you think all they do is flop around like dog shaped pillows they also do this:
I BITES YOU. LET ME CHEW ON YOUR EYE. MUH BFF.
This is life with Harlan in a nutshell:
"I just *love* puppies!" - Jon
On the other hand, there's this:
...and this and this and this and this and this:
If you were wondering if they like each other (or if they are lazy)
the answer is NO, not at all.
Lest you think all they do is flop around like dog shaped pillows they also do this:
I BITES YOU. LET ME CHEW ON YOUR EYE. MUH BFF.
Yes, all our hopes and dreams came true. Bang and Harlan are in love like long lost soul mates. Personally, I think he's okay. I mean... okay. He's cute. He's gentle. He loves Jude. He's mild mannered... when he isn't chewing and WHINING like a GODDAMN PUPPY GRAH GRRR ARG PUPPIES. He has endearingly long floppy muppet arms. In comparison most days he makes Bang look like a fat little angel but she still close talks like all get out.
With a Harlan T. Pepper Q and the A:
What breed is he?
Harlan is a plott hound, which is a large type of coonhound used for hunting boar. His unusual brindle coat is totally stereotypical plott hound. He is pure bred plott. We discovered he has an identification tattoo on his leg which hunters use to identify their litters. At one point he was somebody's prize hound dog.
How did he end up at the SPCA?
He was brought in after being hit by a car. He spent 3 months recuperating from a skull fracture at the SPCA before he was eligible for adoption and by the time he was healed he was so large (plotts are one of the largest types of hounds) that he had a hard time finding a home. At six months old he looked two or three years. The only giveaway he was a youngin' was his big floppy monster feet.
He still has some lingering side effects from the car accident. His head is very sensitive and his back legs go a little wonky. He may have some brain damage but it's hard to tell for sure. In some ways he is incredibly smart (learning to sit, walking on a leash) but he has a few tics that indicate he might not be all there.
Why is he named Harlan T. Pepper?
Unrelated:
RAWR I A LION.
Any questions?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
