There are so many, many things to write about. Impending nuptials. Another stellar year of camping on the Kern. Our scouting trip to Oregon, which was fun AND productive. What it’s like to be a creative person in a corporate suck-up job. But no, today I will write about dogs and the metaphor.
Cinco is our new addition. A charming Chihuahua who is equal parts love and trouble. The tally so far of things he’s destroyed: Two harnesses, two pillows, a leash, a nice leather flip flop, a dog bed, a BlackBerry charger and a rather pricey dog carrier that’s supposed to be dog-proof (but it did get him there and back on the plane to Portland).
He was dreamy good on the plane ride, and in Oregon, tumbled about the farm with Holly’s mutts, Trouble, a sweet ol’ pit bull, and Gemini, who is a yellow lab kind of dog.
At home, he needs constant surveillance. He and Lucy have this odd ritual of switching food bowls in the middle of feeding, which usually means somebody doesn’t get a full lunch or breakfast, as Cinco has a tiny bowl and Lucy’s is regular.
So tonight, when we returned from a walk, I pulled out a baggie of food to put a little in their bowls. It scattered about the entire kitchen floor, due to a hole that had been chewed in the corner. And the dogs set about cleaning it up, each one moving around like a furry hoover. Dog bowl problem solved. Bring on the next one.