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Friday, August 06, 2010
Raebert
PUPDATE. No, he's not Psmith. It takes a while to become a deerhound. Phases, don't you know. At the moment he's an Ent. Legs like oak saplings powered by a baby's brain. He just had his first physical at the vet. Five months old and fifty pounds. (Yes, yes, yes, they loved him at the vet's office... especially the doc who tried to save Psmith. Enough said.) But he's still a baby, albeit a baby with only three housebreaking accidents to his name in a month. And a fairly long list of chewing casualties. Because he's just a baby with molars coming in. He likes everything that squeaks.
He's already learned some commands: NO!!!; Drop it; Down; HEY!; I MEAN RIGHT NOW, MISTER; and Sit. See?
He's a good boy. He loves his greyhounds. He kisses them good morning every day. He hates it when his mom goes off to work.You know. Life is wonderful, but it would be even better if mom were here with me all the time. That kind of thing.
Yeah. No red-eye. Never could figure that out. It's a deerhound thing.
But when it's just the two of us, me typing and him chewing and squeaking everything in sight, we get to be grave Scots, on top of the universe. The way Scots always are.
