I’ve been home all day, chained to my computer. It’s a lovely spring Sunday, and I’m working on a freelance project. Or, rather, trying to work on a freelance project. While I’ve managed to get several loads of laundry done, I’ve only actually completed about an hour of billable freelance work.
Yes, I’ve been doing this for six and a half hours.
Foxie Doxie has spent the day happily sunning himself on the deck. But because sunlight doesn’t exactly have the same impact on Geriatric Poodle, he’s spent the day with me. On my lap. Then helping fold laundry. Then in the Baby Bjorn.
The thing about the Baby Bjorn is that it contains him and keeps him from continuously trying to rearrange my lap. The bad thing about the Baby Bjorn is that it gets top-heavy with poodle and actually requires a little arm support.
It also hurts my back. Imagine – typing with your arms wrapped around a Baby Bjorn that’s holding a dog that never really holds still hurts your back. Who knew?
When I finally had enough, I put him on the floor. He wandered through the cables of my computer. When I extracted him, he wandered off and, as I discovered later, couldn’t find the door and so peed in the living room.
I found the pee. I put him outside. I cleaned up the pee. I heard him bark, so I went to let him in. He can find the deck but he can’t find the door. I helped him to the door. He inexplicably took a hard left and started wandering aimlessly around the deck again, barking and wondering where the fuck the door was.
I wish some gypsies would come to the door right now. I would gladly sell the Geriatric Poodle. For, like, a box of Junior Mints.
I feel terrible. I feel guilty. This is so very hard.
I’m not a saint. I’m trying. But today? Today, when it’s still nice out and I should walk the kids up the street to the park? Today, the idea of carrying Geriatric Poodle the block and a half and then taking 20 minutes to walk 100 feet with him sort of makes me want to hurl.
I think this is why god invented alcohol. And kennels.