Here’s a picture of my dog, Lou (Who has many, many names.):
Louise is a boxer. I love her very much. Sometimes she does stupid stuff, but I forgive her because she’s my sweet Skip to my Lou; my darling!
But lately I’ve been worrying about her activity level, because boxers are an active, playful breed — and Lulu just doesn’t know how to play or enjoy herself; she’s mostly just a lump. This is why I decided it would be good to pair her with a boxer-mix rescue dog named Tolkien, who lasted all of one week until he tore up all the carpet and padding in the hallway after he jumped the gate keeping him and Lucy Liu out of the litter box. Since then I’ve been thinking about adopting the fawn boxer stray (Lou is brindle) who showed up at my youngest sister’s house so my girl could have some companionship, but I’ve been about half past hesitant because Louisa von Trapp has been exhibiting some attention issues lately. And if you’ll remember, I sort of fell into ownership of Lucretia Borgia, as she came with the house.
Still, I don’t know a whole hell of a lot about various dog breeds, even though I work with dozens of dogs every week. So on Tuesday night I spent a couple of hours online learning all about boxers. Some of it was boring, some of it was interesting, and some of it was awesome. For instance, according to this website, “They [boxers] were also popular circus and theater dogs because they learned tricks so easily.”
OMFG. This is exactly what I always wanted. I think one of the reasons I haven’t reproduced is because infants bore the shit out of me and I’m afraid I wouldn’t pay any attention to the offspring until it could do tricks. My youngest sister can attest to this fact, as I ignored all three of her children until they could identify their noses or successfully complete a high five or something equally impressive. (Even though they were ridiculously cute.)
So when I found out that Luby Lou could be a freakin’ circus dog, I got all kinds of excited. I was envisioning her pirouetting in a tutu and jumping through flaming hoops. I knew right then that 2009 was going to be fucking fantastic.
I spent the bulk of the first day of 2009 baking bread. We’re having a family get-together on January 03 where we’ll eat lots of soups, so I baked bread to go along with the soups. Lots of bread: Italian, French Sourdough, Hawaiian. It took me almost eleven hours, all told.
And in between all the mixing and kneading and rising and baking, I cleaned my house. And I mean I seriously cleaned my house. I mopped my hardwood floors with Murphy’s Oil Soap four times. (There’s been a lot of flour on that floor in the last 24 hours). I polished the 12-paned window on the door to the deck, as well as the oval window on the front door — BOTH INSIDE AND OUT. Hell, I even mopped the laundry room. (Maybe other people do that on a regular basis, but I’ve done it maybe three times in the year and a half since I moved here. I mean, who even looks in there?)
So by the time I went to bed at 3:30 a.m., I had ten loaves of delicious, homebaked bread and a spotless home. It was a very productive day.
Today I had only a couple of items on my To Do list: clean out my car, wash my regular laundry (But not my bedding, tablecloth, or area rugs: that happens on Sunday. I have a list!), and get gas. I ran by Aunt Doodie’s to pick up some cabbage/potatoe/sausage boil (I had peas yesterday!), and then I came home to get started on my To Do list.
The first thing I saw in the kitchen was a mound of moist white and gray covered in slobber. Clearly, Louisa May Alcott had experienced a digestive issue while I was gone. But the contents were curious, because she’s on a very strict diet and doesn’t get table scraps. (She has flatulence problems, which are typical of the breed, and a stable diet helps keep the farts far away.)
The second thing I saw was that Lula Bell was walking low to the ground, as if she had been chastised and was feeling guilty. This should always be a tip-off.
The next thing I noticed was six loaves of bread strewn across my bedroom floor, along with the aluminum foil in which they had been wrapped.
And then there was the kicker: A seventh loaf of half-eaten Hawaiian bread haphazardly buried beneath the pillows on my bed.
So I had to mop the kitchen floor again because of the bread barf. I had to vacuum my bedroom again. And I had to wash my bed linens two days early — which is going to throw me off schedule all year long.
Lou had her bread — and then booted it. I did not get my circus tricks. And Louise will be kenneled from here on out when I’m not home.
So take that, Romans. Now there will be no bread, no circuses, and no freedom.