I am watching American Idol, mainly, and trying to finish a baby quilt for a baby that is probably going to college soon because it has been THAT LONG since I started it.
This is exactly the sort of blog post I swore I'd never make.
It is much shorter than the three hundred OTHER blog posts I swore I would never make, however. For example, the temptation to upload the metric ass ton of photos I took on our vacation in October is high. I also want to rant about interest rates, mortgage lenders, and people who go behind their agent's back to accept crappy offers on my dream house instead of our much better offer.
But the winner of the "blog post I should not make" contest is, without a doubt, a long and rambling discussion of the Auxiliary Beagle's latest trick of eating frozen dog turds. She chomps on these damn things the way someone recently enrolled in Weight Watchers snarfs the frozen grapes, all icy crunches and wriggles of delight. Then she comes inside, and as she warms up, her breath grows more and more rancid. Occasionally she belches *and* farts, and it's like a nuke exploding under your computer desk - first the shock wave knocks you down, and eventually the radiation poisons you.
We don't know why she's doing this! We feed her! We feed her fancy kibble, because we've tried four brands and this is the only variety that her royal highness will consent to eat. We feed her twice a day, we keep the water dish full, she takes heartworm pills and doggy vitamins, and she even gets a daily dog biscuit stuffed into a liver pate-filled kong toy.
The Primary Beagle has given us her share of troubles when it comes to chowing down on inappropriate things, of course. SHE can unscrew the lid of a one pound jar of peanuts, which, incidentally, do not break down in a beagle digestive tract during their journey back into the sun. SHE once ate a half pound of Halls Drops without removing the paper wrappers from each treat. The resulting diarrhea was remarkable, in that the next morning when I went to rent the steam cleaner, the clerk
remarked that I should have known the dog'd get the runs because "them things is made o' Kay-roh Seerup, and everybody knowd that Kay-roh Seerup is what you give a baby when she be constipated." The Primary Beagle used to eat wooden pencils, for heaven's sake.
Mainly the Primary Beagle taught me that an ounce of dog-proofing is worth a pound of panicked phone calls to the emergency vet hotline. So the house is thoroughly safe. Food is kept high, or in cabinets. Nothing troublesome lurks on the floor. We're cautious people inside our home. Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined that dog-proofing would mean removing dog turds from the yard outside, lest they become some sort of kibbly apertif.
But that blog post would be disgusting. So I'll just post about how I am yet again injecting the sweet, sweet crack that is American Idol while I try to finish this baby blanket.
