Oh my gosh. This might go down in history as one of my weirdest weeks ever.
Even more…what’s so weird about it is that it’s only a quarter-bubble off plumb. It’s not weird like it would be if something (God forbid) blew up or burned down. It’s just weird because the rhythm of my days has shifted, along with the tenor of the household. And I’m soooo bad at dealing with change.
Not as bad as the people working at the new Burger King down the road, but that’s a story for another time.
For months I’ve been feeling a hole in our house. Something wasn’t right. I got worried that it was presaging the death of Quinn, but the husband reassures me that isn’t very likely for awhile yet. From his lips to God’s ears. (here there was gonna be one of my patented religious ravings about the anthropomorphisation of God, but we’ll save that for another day, mmmkay?)
The hole seems filled by Gob. More than filled. This dog is crazy, which of course means he fits right in. He blends in, too. And by that I mean that he is None More Black. You can’t see him if he chooses to slink off into the shadows. We have always kept our home dimly lit, partly out of allegiance to our hippie-green ideals of 20 years ago and partly out of a preference for soft, indirect lighting. This of course means that we are going to be going out this weekend and buying a flourescent dog shirt so that I don’t keep almost stepping on the critter. I did try to live most of late Monday and into early Tuesday with all the overhead lights glaring down, but that made me feel like I was undergoing some sort of PsyOps new-wave alt torture. And if anyone’s gonna suffer it’s gonna be Gob. Bright yellow and green doggie shirts, here we come!
How this will bode for his hunting efforts is another question. Apparently Schipperkes are avid vermin hunters. We, being relatively clean people overall (if we live according to husband’s diktat instead of wife’s lesser nature), haven’t any real rodents to speak of. Yet as I lay reading in bed yesterday I was presented with a tiny Boyd’s Bear, it’s neck turned to “broken” position. Gob laid it carefully on my stomach with a look that said “there. I killed it. It will bother you no more, my lady. Thank me later! I’m off to slay more infidels!!” I promptly made sure all other stuffed tokens of love from spouse, mother-in-law, sister and others were up high enough to escape his whacky dilligence.
What I didn’t bother checking was under the bed. Now, in fairness to us, we have a king-size Tempurpedic bed. They’ll tell you it’s made out of space foam, but it’s really made out of some rare heavy metal that can’t be moved without a forklift. So if something goes more than say six or eight inches under the edge it usually just stays there until I start missing an old book I just have to re-read and frustratedly grab the Swiffer from the laundry-room to swoop the book out, along with the usual mateless socks, missing heating pad and random punch card from Sweet Cece’s. While reading today I heard a strange slithering. I decided to ignore it and drifted off to sleep. (Meds.) When I woke up about 20 minutes later there were no fewer than nine old dog toys, three socks, a handtowel and a postcard from Prague all laid out triumphantly. Young Indiana Jones was gnawing on one of the rescued dog toys happily satisfied with his good day’s work.
They say life begins at 40. If so, my life is definitely beginning on one of the oddest notes ever.