Speedbump

Jeff and I are indulging in a lazy Sunday afternoon--together, for once, usually he works part of Sunday, but today he's making a new leather cover for his hatchet because the old one was "farby"--but to tell you the truth, loyal readers, we are a bit shaken around here.

Last night, after enjoying a delish fish dinner at a local dive called Captain Chuckamuck's with Jeff's folks, we returned home to two lazy beagles. I took them out for a walk while Jeff and his dad put together their new telescope, and then sat downstairs watching telly with the two dogs lazed out around me. Kizzy in the back bedroom, Lucy next to me on the sofa. When Jeff's parents came down to say good night, his dad bent over to pet Lucy, and she reared up and attacked his face.

Yeah, it happened just that fast. I don't even know exactly what went down, since I was turned toward the TV at the time, but she broke his glasses which scratched the bridge of his nose. Jeff collared her and put her in the bedroom. We tended to the cuts and apologized, but there is definitely a different feeling in the house. Lucy was adjusting well, fitting in with Kismet and our crazy schedules, she was interested and perky when we were walking, played like a small horse with Kismet, turning the house into a racetrack. And now this.

Jeff and I are suddenly on uncertain ground here. Uncertain because we cannot--cannot--have a dog that will attack people seemingly at random. Yet we adopted her knowing that her current personality was a product of an unknown past, and that we would have to work with her and her needs to help her fit in. I thought we were doing a good job, but all of a sudden we are faced with having a dog we don't trust in the house. I hate thinking about all the people who gave up on her before, but I also have to put my family first.

So for now we are starting over. I put in a call to the shelter where she was adopted from, and they were most helpful, offering practical advice ("get her off the sofa!") and numbers for dog behaviorists and trainers. We are trying to be more understanding and also more strict, showing her that we are in charge around here, and that whoever WE want in the house will be permitted. I don't know how this is going to end, but it makes me heartsick that my puppy doesn't yet feel safe enough in our family to be quiet, content and loving.

Springtime

I know a lot of loyal readers out there (and you would have to be pretty loyal if you're reading this, almost two months after I apparently abandoned my blog) will be taken aback when I write a paen to spring. Spring is definitely here, according to the daffodils, some flowering trees, and the amount of fur coming out of my dogs. (Yes, dogs-plural, I know it's been awhile, hasn't it?) After enduring a rough winter, I am so grateful for warmth and spring, for going out in the morning and the sun is coming up. For not having to bundle into a wool blanket while I'm on the ferry. It's a deep, wellsprung gratitude, like a prayer everytime I step outside with my coat unbuttoned.

There honestly hasn't been a lot going on the past two months. I started this blog before I left for London, when every day brought new and magical experiences, and I was a lot more out of contact with people. Now, I have settled down into a completely mundane middle-class life, with varying levels of stress and drama. My days consist of working, eating dinner and walking the dogs. Do I really have anything to offer any more? Is anyone out there?

Jeff and I adopted another beagle a couple of weeks ago...her name is Lucy, and she is 40 pounds to Kismet's 26. They get along very well...usually roughhousing all over the living room while Jeff and I look on and smile fondly. At night we tuck them into the spare bedroom, which is overflowing with fleece blankets and dog toys...in the morning I am greeted by wagging tails and beagle stretches and we go out for our morning walk, sniffing the breeze and occasionally scaring deer.



Mah beagle babies



Lucy Hanover. The shelter gave her the name Lucy, I added "Hanover" because she needed an awesome last name.

That's mostly the news for now...new dog, it's spring. The re-enacting season is going to start in a couple weeks, and I hope to have some new clothes by then. I'll post pictures. I hope my loyal readers still find my life interesting enough to read about. :)

do not want

I'm trying very hard not to "want" anything for Christmas this year...I have a new car, and that's more than enough present. (Kizzy, on the other hand, is very excited about his first "real" Christmas and would like stuffed chew toys and more Greenies.) Last year I posted my Christmas list online...I'm too old to be excited about the presents part of Christmas anyway. Seriously. I'm working on focussing about the other, better parts, keeping my mind on the real reason for the season.

But I just got an email from PETA, and I wanted to let you know about a program they have going, in case you have extra pressie money left over. Let me say I don't agree with all of PETA's opinions or their tactics. But they have started a program to provide doghouses to dogs who are chained up outside. Legally, the owners of these dogs have to give them up to the authorities or to adoption groups, and if they do not, the dogs can't just be taken, unless they are being overtly neglected. But PETA is able to provide wooden doghouses with straw inside, which is better than nothing. At $265 a pop, it's outside my price range, but if everyone who reads NLD donated $10, that would be one less dog outside.

More information about PETA's program here.

Adopting a rescued dog has really challenged me, which is why I like the idea behind this program. Kizzy was literally picked up by the side of the road. The only clues I have to what happened to him before are little quirks of his personality: the fact that he's only just now grasping the idea behind "sit" and "stay." His ability to gulp down food in less than thirty seconds, like he's never eaten before. His non-barking. His overwhelming friendliness despite...despite whatever happened to land him by the side off the road. And the most disquieting thing--the fact that at one point his tail was broken and never reset. When he lies down on the floor it sticks straight up like a flag, adorably. But it gives me pause: what happened? How long was he out in the wild? Did he catch his tail on something--or did someone break it for him? It is just the perfect height to catch in a car door. I should know, I have to watch out for it when we go over to the historical area for our Saturday walks. He's not the dog I expected: like a football-playing son, I am constantly worried I'm not able to be a good mom because I don't understand him. He entertains me, irritates me, licks me and pisses me off sometimes. But he loves me, and I love him and we're learning to live with each other. I guess I'm rising to the challenge...I only wish I had more room so we could get another dog.

What to Do with my Life (pt 72)

Have you ever seen a movie where an ex-junkie, now reformed and living a normal life in everyday company falls completely, totally, utterly off the wagon and goes on a heroin and cocaine fueled binge that only stops when they wake up, three days later, disoriented and not knowing where they are, usually someplace like Neasden?

Okay, now picture that, but with dogs.

So I thought I was doing okay with the no dogs in my life thing, ya know, you get used to not having a small furry to trip over. But this morning I went to a "meet and greet" with the local greyhound rescue group and spent two glorious hours surrounded by needlenosed ex-racers. And I am totally out of my gourd for a dog. It's all I talk about. I am covered in dog fur, as God and nature intended, and even if I don't end up with a greyt, I'm so gaga for a puppy that I may actually do someone physical harm if I don't get dog.

Which, naturally, has led me to reflect on my life. One of the women I work with is contemplating buying a house with her nearly-fiancee who just joined the Navy, all the while making fabulous reproduction period fashions and eventually going back to school for a master's degree in historical design. And she's 22. I, on the other hand, have cul-de-sac'd here in Williamsburg. Don't get me wrong, I still love it here. I love the history, the costumes, the people, the two kinds of roaches. I'm so grateful to have a full-time job in this economy, with health insurance, and I'm looking forward to moving into an apartment that has both a kitchen and private bathroom. But I'm not using my degree, I'm not even writing very much anymore. Without any pressure to produce written words--either for a class or other public consumption--I've just sort of drifted away from it. The Goals of my Life include A) getting a dog and, uh, B) well, that's pretty much it.

I feel like I'm not building on anything I've done. Other people my age are buying houses, building lasting relationships with members of the opposite sex, demanding higher wages, raising children, and saving the planet. I'm not leaving so much as a footprint on this world. My colleage noted how "lucky" I was to be able to pack up and move anytime I wanted--I wanted to shake her and say "no, for once in my life I'd really LIKE to have some things tying me to a particular area, person, anything that stops me from picking up and moving." I'd really like to buy a house, raise children, publish a novel, maybe even, ya know, get married, but that just doesn't seem to be happening. People keep telling me I need to move back to London. I wish it were that simple.

So I'm going to get a dog. And that will be what I do.

I didn't mean for this to be a depressing post...I'm afraid I've got the hypo today, even though I spent the morning with puppies and in a few minutes I'm going to go get a wasabi (wasabiii! hyah!) veggie roll. I think I'm just lonely and reflective. I need to meet more people. Next week is going to be fun: I'm finally going to get to train for the military programs so next Thursday I'll be learning how to fire a black powder musket. And we all know what happens next: that's right, breeches. Jealous? Oh yeah.

Wishlist

No small dogs.

I'd prefer a dog that's a year or two old, one with some house training.

One that doesn't mind couch potatoing it up during the day.

Not too much shedding.

Intelligent.

Color, gender, doesn't matter.

Friendly, but there's no need to worry about getting along with cats or children, as I have neither.

Hmmm...I wonder if such a dog exists...

"and if they try and stop us, Seaweed, I'll call the en-double-ay-see-pee"

I am not a football fan, but I am a dog fan, so I've been following this Michael Vick case with some interest. One of the interesting aspects of the case is how the animal rights community has made Vick their new posterboy. Most animal rights activists are white, by the way. So when you see a picture of Vick entering courtrooms, you see a large group of white protesters waving signs at him, and opposing them are champions of justice...who are largely black people asking for the right for a black person to receive a fair trial in this country. And yesterday I read an opinion article where the author was fuming about how the NAACP is "protecting" Michael Vick , the dog-abusing murderous scum. They were angry that a group would close ranks merely because of the colour of a person's skin.

Gentle readers, personal opinions aside, Michael Vick is innocent until proven guilty. THAT'S what the NAACP is protecting--the right for someone to be judged in a courtroom, not on the streets outside by a pack of wild animal rights activists. I'm not fighting for Vick's right to abuse dogs, but I am fighting for his right to a fair trial. Regardless of skin colour.

I am Don Quixote! Lord of La Mancha!

I have discovered an online radio station (www.live365.com - Max Broadway Zero Hour) that plays nothing but showtunes. And not just the overplayed stuff they have for tourists, but old stuff, new stuff, off-Broadway and on, title songs and filler bits. I'm really enjoying hearing new songs mixed in with my old favourites. I've heard of Man of La Mancha, of course (thanks, Dad), but I've never listened to it. So when the title song came up, I was intrigued. Because lately, I've been thinking about getting a dog (stay with me here, this is actually a serious post), and naturally thinking about what to name it. Or, even more lately, I've been thinking about getting two dogs, and then they could keep each other company. One of the names I've come up with is Horatio, for Hamlet's best friend in Hamlet. Because a dog is man's best friend, geddit? Keeping with that theme, I was thinking about other theatrical best friends, like Antonio, Riff, Valentine, Sancho Panza--you see the train of thought? Then I was thinking of other things that were a girl's best friend, diamonds, gaff tape, so on. And eventually I started thinking maybe I should name them after my favourite Tube stations, just to be annoying. Although, I'm not sure, if I were a dog, if I would respond to "Covent Garden" and "Waterloo." "Waterloo" and "Trafalgar?" Perhaps not. I was just about of the opinion that "Piccadilly" might be a fun name for a dog when I heard that someone parked a car full of bombs in Haymarket Street--this is right next to Piccadilly Circus, right down the street from where Phantom of the Opera is playing. If you were me, and you were walking from the National Gallery to the Criteron Theatre to see, oh say, "The Complete Works of Shakespeare Abridged" you would go right past where this car was parked, full of gas, nails and (thank God) a defective detonator. I told you this was a serious post. I'm not talking about this to freak anyone out, but just to contemplate the fact that this stuff happens. I was just thinking about how lucky I was to live in a city where I could get on the train and go to work and not have to worry about getting blown up. (I try not to think about how easy it would be to park a car under one of the bridges--who puts a train up in the air anyway?!)I forgot where I was going with this. I guess this is the depot for the train of thoughts. Ha. Oy. I'm so mad that people are trying to blow up my city. And so sad that people feel the need to target London. Why? God, who knows. I'd rather think about dogs.

Can you hear the people sing?

Um, no. I am a considerate iPodder--considering the earbuds are a half inch away from my cochlea, there's no reason to blast my music--but apparently not everyone feels the same. Like the jerk who sat next to me and who had his music up so loud that I could hear the lyrics, while the second act of "Les Miz" passed me by. Jerk.

Question: What do theatre people do on their days off?
Answer: Laundry.

That's a joke. Really. Yesterday the cosmic forces of the universe aligned and I wasn't needed at the temp job, so I slept in until noon, then did laundry, went grocery shopping, made black bean salad, worked on a play and listened to the first act of Les Miz. And then went to rehearsal. I was really tired most of the day, but at least I started chipping away at the huge sleep deficit that I've been racking up. Today I'm back temping, but I'm up on the 23rd "executive" floor, which is a solo receptionst desk...and very, very quiet. I haven't had a phone call or a visitor in the hour that I've been here. There's no one up here but me and all the magazines the company represents. I'm looking over a stack of them right now, and apparently American has moved on into the trembly-lip, brave face "hero" segment of the mourning cycle, with respects to what happened in Virginia next week. I can't handle these publications trying to co-opt other people's pain right now. They're just leeches.

I have been meditating a lot on these lyrics from "Hedwig and the Angry Inch" lately:

"...there's nothing here to thrill or bring you down."

and also

"The fates are vicious and they're cruel,
You learn too late you've used two wishes like a fool.
And then you're someone you are not,
And Junction City ain't the spot.
Remember Mrs. Lot and where she turned around."

You sort of have to listen to the song to get the wistful nature of these lyrics, otherwise they're kind of brutal. This sort of sums up how I feel about Chicago right now: I'm just ambivalent. There's nothing really exciting here, there's nothing really getting me down here. I just sort of washed up in this city and I'm making the best of it.

This morning as I was walking to the eL, a beagle came up and said hello to me, which was good. Her owner was worried I'd be mad that she put her paws on my legs, but I don't mind at all. Dog fix. Ah. I had a sort-of-fight with one of the guys in the cast yesterday as well, before rehearsal. He was insisting he couldn't be a feminist because he wasn't a woman and I was insisting he could be. I asked him, "Do you believe in equal pay for equal work?" and when he said yes, I said, "then you're a feminist." At which point he protested that that wasn't really a good mark of feminism, but I told him it was one of the basic tenents. Part of me was celebrating that feminism has come so far that people take it for granted women should get equal pay for equal work, and part of me was despairing by how far we have to go. (you have to be a woman to be a feminist? arg.)

I have tonight off, so I'm planning on tripping down to the library again and getting a card and then, hopefully, checking out the biography of John Adams again so I can FINALLY find out how it ends--I'm not entirely certain these "Articles of Confederation" are going to work out, but I'm hoping. Also my roommate graciously netflixed the new "Pride and Prej" so I'm going to do some needlepoint and have tea and watch whatshisface fall badly short of Mr. Firth's Mr. Darcy.