So I have been house/dog sitting for a few days now in a house with some archaic means of communication with the outside world. I forget what they call it...pony express...telegraph...dial-up, something like that.
What have I learned? Give the dog the pill hidden in the peanut butter. If you use the Brie cheese, she will bury it as soon as you turn your back. Where will she bury it? In your pillow, where you will find it much later.
It's been a long time now since I was rudely ejected from domesticity, and I had forgotten what a tremendous pain in the ass, I mean, responsibility, dogs can be. Going out for a drink on Saturday night? Not for long you aren't. Want to go on vacation? Think again. Unless you have some sucker, er, really good friend or saintly family member willing to give up their life for a week while you sit on the beach.
Oh, I kid. I love being woken up at dawn, throwing on my boots and stumbling outside to wait endlessly while the world's fussiest canine searches meticulously for the perfect place to pee. "Please pee," I plead. But my lament falls on distracted ears. Eventually we head back in but before I can go back to sleep for an hour before I have to get up and go to work I have to search the sheets for any peanut butter crackers laced with antihistamines.
One other thing I've learned: North Decatur Road is the tenth circle of hell. When I die I will sit endlessly at red light after red light behind some fucking idiot who misses the turn arrow while picking his nose.
