I never have to coax Harley in the car…
…but the amount of time I spend vacuuming is ridiculous.
I never have to coax Harley in the car…
…but the amount of time I spend vacuuming is ridiculous.
Here are some the wallpapers that I have in rotation at the moment. With the exception of the first wallpaper, the wallpapers consist of photos taken by me in Minneapolis and are sized at 1440×900.
Dear Mr. Postman,
I understand my apartment building has small, dated mailboxes.
I feel your pain. Really. I do.
I understand that I don’t empty my mail every day like I should.
I (again) feel your pain. Truly.
But this sir, is some bullshit:
I know Glenn Beck is not making the most pleasant face here, but did you really have to wad up my Time Magazine with your greasy little hands?
Why didn’t you wad up the mailbox-spam from the Tribune? Why didn’t you wad up the community magazines that no one actually reads? Heck, why didn’t you wad up my heating bill?
Why my Time magazine? Why why why?
And this isn’t the first time you’ve wadded up my precious Time Magazine! Every time I pull out my wrinkled magazines in the coffeeshop people look at me like I’m a crazy wino.
And I blame you. And so does Harley:
We went on an extra-long walk this evening.
Harley is knocked out:
And yes, the snoring is obscenely loud.
Harley has an ear infection, which means I have to rinse and medicate his ears daily.
He, of course, is unamused by this:
Harley also attended his first official law school event today. Outlaw, the gay student group, had a picnic and I decided to bring the dog along.
He behaved. People were surprised by how calm he is. I didn’t bother to explain that my dog is, in fact, Joe Cool.
Dr. Smooth just graduated from vet school. He’s young. He’s hip. He has a soul patch.
Dr. Timid is middle aged, quiet and serious. She always looks worried, like she is about to tell you something went horribly wrong and your dog will, in fact, never regain control of his bowels. Have fun with the slip and slide!
So of course Dr. Timid was working today.
Harley: “Wait, wait, wait, so you’re telling me that the folded laundry wasn’t there for me to roll in?”
There is a pile of books on my apartment floor from this weekend’s furniture moving project.
Harley skipped all of the murder mystery/crime novels and went straight for John Irving and Kafka.
I love my dog… I swear…
Hey, as long as you’re comfortable.
It finally stopped storming, so I fetched Harley and went to the East Bank to study outside.
Harley got very serious about digging a ditch to sit in:
Harley is afraid of fireworks and gunfire-like popping noises.
So, he’s spent the past week cowering in the bathroom because it’s the only room in the apartment without windows.
RSS readers: If you can’t see the video above, click here.
Actually, yesterday I decided that there was no way that my 9am vet visit was going to happen because I was out late at Jack’s b-day extravaganza and Gib’s afterparty.
But for whatever reason I wake up at 8am and decide that I probably should drag myself out of bed and take the dog to the vet.
So, an hour later I’m standing in an examination room listening to a chipper veterinary assistant run down a list of extensive care plans for the dog.
I was quietly calculating how many hours worth of wages I was going to burn on this visit when the young-ish vet comes in.
The vet looks freaked out.
Vet: “ Oh my god, your dog’s heartworm test is positive!”
The assistant (gasping): “Oh my god!”
Me: “…um, okay, what does that mean?”
Vet: “Oh my god, I can’t believe he tested positive! I mean, I haven’t had a positive case in two years!”
The assistant gasps again. We all look at the dog as if we expected him to drop dead right there. Cue the ominous music.
Me: “Well is he going to die or…?”
The vet then adopted that tone that TV doctors use when they tell parents just how painful their child’s cancer death is going to be.
Vet: “No, well, I mean, probably not. We don’t know how serious it is because if he has had the worms for a while then they may cause heart failure. See what happens is that the heart enlarges…lungs filled with fluid…then horribly painful death… gory details… But I need to do some x-rays to be sure they are about $200. Sign this paper.”
While the vet left to re-check the test results, I called madre.
Me: “I’m at the vet’s. Harley has heartworms.1 It’s going to be like $700.”
Madre: “Hm. Well, how good is the prognosis? Because that’s a lot of money to spend on a dead dog…”
The vet did not take my mother’s practical question very well – although the vet explained the three levels of heartworm (and the fact that the third level was basically untreatable) he seemed aghast at the notion of putting a dog down.
Vet: “Well, we will talk about our, uh, options, when we get there. We need to keep him here today to observe him just in case he has an adverse reaction to the medicine and faints or dies or something…”
Me: “Dandy. I’ll be at work.”
Vet: “Great. See you at 5. You have to go to the reception desk and put down a down payment. That’s our policy for all of our costly procedures.”
Dandy.
So I drive off to the suburbs and worke for 5 hours before heading back to the animal hospital.
Apparently Harley did not take his stay very well.
Assistant: “So I took him out but he didn’t go. But when I put him in the kennel he just looked at me and started peeing a lake!”
Me: “Oh my.”
Assistant: “Oh, and you were right about the flatulence.”
Me: “I wouldn’t joke about such things.”
Assistant: “Oh, and he also pooped in the kennel as well. It was soft just like you said it would be!”
Me: “I wouldn’t joke about such things either!”
They brought the dog out. He looked tired, unamused, and like he just got beaten up.
Vet: “He’s going to be a little sore, but that’s to be expected. Here’s his medicine. And remember he cannot get excited or exercised for the next few months OR HE WILL DIE. Okay? Short walks are fine, but nothing strenuous.”
Well, gee.
Brought Harley home and went back to work for another 5 hours.
When I back home Harley and I are going on a brief, non-strenuous non-death-enducing walk.
1 So about this heartworm business…according to the assistant it takes 6 months for heartworms to show up in test results. I got the dog in March, so he had heartworm when I bought him. I call the animal rescue where he came from and the rescue manager says, “Oh, that’s a surprise! But yeah, we don’t test the dogs for heartworm. That costs extra. You gotta tell me first if you wanted that done.”
The dog’s shedding.
For the past few days I’ve found little tumble-weeds of dog hair all over the apartment. I expected that cacti and cowboy shootouts to materialize any moment…
When I got home today there was a little mound of hair near Harley’s kennel and I had had it.
I looked at the dog and informed him it was on.
So a few minutes later I was wrestling a 100lb dog into the bathtub…and Harley got his first-ever bath.
So yeah. He was not thrilled.
But I’m glad I did it because:
I know. Ew.
But better in the tub than all over the apartment!
Most dogs have a habit of kicking their hind legs to cover up their business.1 But my dog has a habit of kicking his business.
So I’m standing on the corner of my street, texting.
Harley finishes his business, and I am not paying attention so I don’t catch him before he starts to kick his back legs and launches his business into the air.
Poo flies everywhere. I hear screaming from around the corner:
Mel: “WHAT WHAT WHAT? WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT? IS THAT SHIT? WHO IS THROWING SHIT?!”
Mel turns the corner and glares at me. Molly is sporting her standard uniform of daisy dukes, flip flops, dirty white tank top, and the overstuffed Cub grocery bag…and she is livid.
Mel: “Why, it’s that BIG ASS DOG again! And he throws shit now!
Mel (talking to the dog): “You think throwing shit is funny? THROWING YO SHIT AT PEOPLE DOG! YOU CANNOT DO THAT! You’re exactly what’s wrong with this country. YOU ARE A TERRORIST! TERRORIST!”
Harley walks towards Molly and she storms off screaming “terrorist.”
I exchange wtf-looks with the Somali men at the bus stop and keep it moving…
About ten minutes later I’m near Loring Park, texting again, and not paying attention to the crazy she-mullet approaching.
This lady had a fountain of spiky 80’s hair with an extra long rat tail. I really suspect she fluffed out a dead cat and decided to wear it as a headpiece, but maybe she just wants to bring back 80’s Tina Turner.
Tina: “Is that dog named Caesar?!”
Me: “Uh… no. He is not named Caesar.”
Tina: “Are you sure?”
Me: “Quite.”
Tina (bending down to pet): “Oh, well, I see a couple walking a dog like this all the time, and their dog is named Caesar!”
The full line of questioning and cooing followed – how old is he? Oh what a sweet dog! Is he mixed with anything? What a cute baby! Yes you are! How is his temperament? Oooh gimme kisses!
I almost felt like telling her about the poo flinging incident but didn’t want to prolong the Vh1 flashback.
We get away from Tina and turn the corner. We near the 19 Bar when a short stocky guy walks out from the bar’s parking lot. He reminds me of Buzz Lightyear, minus the cool costume.
Buzz: “Cute dog.”
Me: “Thank you.”
I start to wonder if Buzz is cute or not when Buzz’s cologne hits me. Actually, the cologne doesn’t just hit me, but it punches me in the gut, drags me around the corner, and then waterboards me. That’s how bad it was.
Buzz: “Are you okay?”
Me (gagging and wincing): “Oh, I’m fine. Have a nice day.”
Buzz looks at me like, “freak.” And prances into the bar. Buzz’s toxic cloud2 followed.
I hope tomorrow’s walk around Calhoun is less eventful.
1 Yes, this post starts with dog poop. Welcome to 1L summer!
2 And I swear my clothes smell of whatever cologne he showered in. He’s wearing it for the entire bar…my goodness.
I’ve discovered that if you rub Harley’s forehead between his eyes, he goes to sleep.
Yesterday was a bit of an adventure.
After Corporations, I noticed that I had a voicemail – it was from my new landlord. He said that my credit and criminal records came back clean, and I should come down and sign the lease.
I signed the lease after Crimlaw, and then called Harley’s foster parents.1
Yes. The name of the town was Pease. There was also a “Rum River” and a town called “Wellthen.” This reminded me of the town names from the Bemidji trip…
Pease is a little country.
Okay, more than a little country. Think horses, cows, dirt roads, massive trucks, pro-life billboards, antique shops, churches that look like sheds, and holes-in-shirts.
And of course I took the wrong dirt road, but two boys got off their horses (I shit you not) and pointed me in the right direction.
There were large dogs (and horses) everywhere. Some dogs caged, some were chained to posts, and others roamed around freely. I got out of the car and had two pit bulls inspect me. Harley was tied in front of the house.
After greeting the two bulls, I saw a little boy getting on a dirt bike. “You guys have a lot of dogs…” I said. “Yep,” he said. “Susan’s inside.”
Susan opened the door as I walked up the house stairs. She unchained Harley and took him inside. There were kennels stacked everywhere inside the house. There was also a bored looking pit bull, and several more excitable pit bulls in cages. Susan’s (husband?) was on the couch watching “What happens in Vegas” and the un-caged pit bull sat at his feet.
After making awkward small talk with the husband, I look over and see Susan nonchalantly pulling out a BIG HONKING needle. She told the husband to hold Harley, and then stabbed Harley’s coat with the needle. “This is his whatsit shot.”
Susan then recited a long list of Harley’s recent shots and treatments – “if he starts pooping out worms that’s perfectly normal. It’s really good actually.”
After twenty minutes I was speeding back down the dirt roads with Harley in the back seat.2
I then drove fifty miles West and visited Phillip in St. Cloud. He introduced me to his cats, housemate, and her rabbits. His housemate owns two rabbits and spins yarn out of their hair, which is just about the most random, and coolest thing ever.
We stopped in Monticello where Harley got another potty break and a chicken nugget. Once we got back to civilization Minneapolis, I walked Harley around Dinkytown, picked up a few things from the Gamma house and then drove back to my new apartment.
I planned on sleeping on a self-inflating travel bed that my mother bought for me last summer. But, of course my “convenient self-inflating bed” was not so convenient. The pump requires two huge batteries, not included.
So I spent my first night on an area rug with Harley sleeping nearby.
The neighborhood is gorgeous and has an odd mix if old mansions, historic churches, and apartment buildings.
Harley is really calm, so I didn’t have to worry about him lunging at people.
He does however sort of run into me when I’m walking him, like, “Oh, sorry, I want to go to the other side of the sidewalk and I forgot you were there.”
I also need to work on fattening him up:
This means that reinforcing good behavior with treats is completely acceptable for at least the first month.
Although I’m still getting used to the drool (mostly after he drinks water), I think Harley was a good pick.
1 I decided not to get Tula (the pit bull) because I felt that mom’s reaction (OH MY GOD AHH!) was indicative of the general-animus towards pits, and I wasn’t prepared to spend the next 10 years fighting that stereotype.
2 One neat thing that Susan gave me was a dog-seatbelt for the car.
