"You lick my bagel and I'll kick your ass."

[stillane]

... and other adventures with dogs.

Yes, folks, dogs, as in plural. Not one, but two. (Incidentally, this brings the critter tally up to dual canines, ditto cats, likewise rabbits, a fish each for my sister and me, a surprisingly boring frog, and a surprisingly entertaining snail. Can you tell my parents were raised on farms?) The stars aligned to land Dad just what he always wanted: a Jack Russell of his very own. The little beast is eight weeks old, absolutely adorable, and capable of mayhem and destruction the likes of which have never before been seen. Apparently, however, this tendency to the demonic is limited to myself and my sister. He's an angel with Dad and Mom. Figures.

And have I mentioned lately that my Golden is the best dog ever? Because he is. Aside from the usual shadow duties - sleeps by me at night, refuses to do anything until I'm up to do it, too - he's been pitching in with the pupsitting, wearing the tyke out with endless rounds of roughhouse. He's generally remarkably gentle and patient about it, too - far more so than I would be with two pounds of growling fluff hanging from my upper lip. Mostly, he just lays his head down and pins the pup when he gets tired. The little brat wriggles and whines, but it's painless. The only thing the big guy hasn't taken well was the minibeast romping over to take a nip out of me. I made the mistake of saying "ow", and Wyatt was there in two seconds flat to roll the little guy away. No harm done, but I got the big worried retriever eyes.

Also, if you call my home any time in the near future, I promise I am not committing acts of cruelty. The screaming, heart-wrenching cry in the background is only an expression of displeasure at being held captive. The monster doesn't like to be caged, which is making crate training a challenge. My favorite bit so far is the Mini Chainsaw of Death. He grabs onto a cage bar near the top and proceeds to slide down, snarling all the way. This might be menacing on something bigger than a loaf of bread. I give him an A for effort.

Any and all name suggestions for the little cuss are hereby requested. We're leaning toward Jekyll at the moment.

In other news, still job hunting. I think I'm going to have to scrap my lofty ideals and go for something temporary and possibly unappealing. *sigh* Harvard's MCZ doesn't want me. Not that I particularly want to be up north for another winter, but access to the museum would have been nice. Sharks in jars. Haven't heard from any of the other zones yet, but I'm not holding my breath. It should not be this difficult to find gainful employment when one is perfectly willing to relocate and interested in just about everything.

In other other news... hm. Let's see. New Atlantis tonight! (And yay for the internet, since I'd miss it entirely otherwise.) Three pending stories in various stages of doneness; one being the still not done challenge entry, another the SPN finale tag that I'm worried everyone and their mother will already have done, and the last an SG:A fic that keeps switching personalities on me. Not as in POV, as in tone. And format, because, yeah, it's funky. I like it, but it scares me. I'm going to need some serious beta opinion on it.

And I think that's about it. Dad's back at work, allowing for some quality internet and writing time, so maybe I'll get something accomplished between job searches. Yay!

So that's me. How are you?

Comments

[raucousraven.livejournal.com]

Jekyll, heh. But what's this, no "Earp"? *g*

Dogs = teh cutez. You = teh Cutezest! And really, too bad about the sharks in jars, but hey, Dad at work. That is hugely cool.

G'luck with the ficcie. Just stare it down and don't play dead.

[stillane.livejournal.com]

*squishes you*

Actually, somewhere along the way, Wyatt developed his own little system of speech. Along with the usual grunts and whines and occasional bark, he's figured out how to belch at will (generally to express displeasure). For this very reason his full name is Wyatt Burp. (Oh, how I wish I were making this up. It is a neat conversation starter with visitors, though. "Yes, you heard what you thought you heard. Don't mind him. He's just unhappy that he can't come say hello.") We originally called him Wyatt out of sheer liking of the name, and it's a little weird to have the rest of it slot into place. Strange, strange dog.

(Then again, we often say that his doggy ancestors are rolling in their graves somewhere. He's freaked out at the very sight of water, and best buddies with the local wild things; my bunnies think he's the coolest thing ever. Not that we mind either of those traits, since they keep him out of trouble.)

And yes, Dad at work! The whole doctor-ish crew is still a bit amazed by how fast he's recovered. Aside from restrictions on how much he may lift, he's pretty much back to normal. For altruistic reasons, I'm thrilled for him. For less noble ones, I'm happy for me, too. Free time is nice. *g*

I looked in on your latest, by the way. I think I'm going to need to investigate the source more before I get it all, but what I caught was lovely and lyrical. I'll come back with intelligent things to say eventually. *g*