Disheveled

Fletch outgrew his first crate in three weeks.  He’s more than doubled in size.  In his new one, two sizes up, he likes to turn sideways and stick his foot out the short side, although he has plenty of room.  He’s just that way.  These days, he alternates between looking long and lean when he stands up, and floppy and adorably fat when he sits.  While my friends were out clubbing on Friday, there was a lot of this going on at my house:

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I love that he likes to sit by next to my Willie Nelson album.  It all looks so serene.  Why is it, with all of this domestic tranquility, that I can not manage to finish my thank you notes?  Put the rest of the Christmas things away?  Write a novel and start on my New Year’s Resolutions? Shower and dress every day?

I didn’t manage to shower this morning, and so of course ran immediately into my neighbors at the grocery store, wearing a hoodie and glasses and with slightly wild hair.  Probably my fault for staying out till midnight at Slims.  That’s not extremely late, but morning comes early around here.

I’m disheveled.

It’s pretty amusing, actually.  Most days I have mud somewhere on me, from tromping around in the yard and then sitting cross-legged on the floor with the dog.  My car is littered with dog toys. I have said “poop” and “testicles” and even “anal glands” out loud more times in the past month than I’d have guessed I’d say those words in my whole life. And I actually napped during the movie I saw tonight at Rialto, but only for a minute. A dog has ways of keeping you from taking yourself too seriously.  During the depth of my sleep deprivation these last few days, I’ve had to admit that having a very very small puppy is harder than I thought it would be, but also more fun.  I overestimated the amount of things I’d be able to accomplish in a day, and underestimated how precious the round puppy belly is, or how he makes a little “brrrrlllllaagh!” sound every time he yawns, or how entertaining he is when he barks at my bust of Elvis while trying to guard the living room.

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Someone with a grown-up dog stopped me in the yard the other day and said, “Is that a puppy?  OH YOU POOR THING.”  And I laughed.  But she didn’t.   I’m not worried, long-term. He’s slept through the night two whole times this month.

He’ll probably do it again someday.

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