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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
(For those of you who bother with that holiday looming on the December horizon, you can find me infused with Christmas spirit over at ZuG.com. If that’s your sort of thing.)
So, I mentioned a few days ago that I’ve decided to change jobs. Luckily, I found a new one to swap with.
That’s kind of the important part, really. It’s like exchanging gifts at the mall. If you go in with something and you’re there to trade, then you need to leave with something similar in value. If you leave empty-handed, it’s a failure. Ditto for ‘store credit’. Also, if you go in with a gold watch, and come out with an aluminum toaster. Not a win.
Luckily, as I said, I managed to make the exchange. It’s official and everything. So I’ve started telling people. In fact, I’ve almost finished telling people. I told the people I work with now. And I told the people I’m going to work with soon.
(Again, that’s kind of an important part. Also important that they don’t laugh in your face or do a spit-take when you tell them you accept the job. That would be an ‘off on the wrong foot’ sort of thing.)
I told my wife, because that’s just the sort of close-knit sharing relationship we have. And I told my parents, and quite a few of my friends. A lot of people, as it turns out.
But there’s one person I haven’t told. It’s been a week, and I just don’t know how to break the news to him. I’m not sure I can, frankly. Not to this guy.
He’s my lunchtime burrito shack guy.
What’s the big deal about leaving your lunch vendor? For most people, none. For me, it’s a Big Deal. With a capital ‘B’, and a ‘D’ on salsa-fried steroids.
Here’s the thing. Lunch is sort of a different animal for me. I have a singular strategy for my workday midday meal. As I mentioned a few months ago:
“Find greasy joint of dubious nutritional benefit. Order same lunch every day. Eat lunch. Digest. Rinse. Repeat.”
“I’m not a picky eater. I’ll put things in my mouth at the dinner table that you wouldn’t let your neighbor’s cat get too close to.”
I’m not a picky eater. I’ll put things in my mouth at the dinner table that you wouldn’t let your neighbor’s cat get too close to. But lunch at the office is different. This is no time for pleasure, or creativity or hope or variety. You’re on the job to have your soul slowly crushed beneath you, and lunch is an important part of the process. Eating exactly the same thing every single day, day in and day out, has its advantages.
Mostly, those advantages involve not standing in line, or having to bother remembering what my order is. Instead, by the time I’ve moseyed up near the counter, the food is half-prepped. They take the money and hand me a burrito bag, and everyone’s happy. They get a customer, and I at least avoid the danger of standing in a long lunch line, where I might accidentally reflect on where I’ve gotten myself to and the nowhere my life is probably heading, which would in turn lead me to try to drown myself in a nearby Subway ranch dressing tub.
So I see this burrito guy a lot. I mean, a lot. But come 2012, I’ll be seeing him not at all any more. My next job isn’t even in the same town. I’ll be looking for a new burrito guy, and this one will be cast ingloriously aside.
I’m pretty sure this is the big disaster those Mayans were talking about a while back, frankly. All the pieces fit. It’s the Tacoshackpocalypse. Get yer T-shirts now.
The sad thing is, this guy’s going to be devastated. Not because it’s me leaving, in particular. I mean, I am unforgettable, sure. But that’s less in a ‘first love who got away’ sense, and more in a ‘I’d know that asshole’s face anywhere’ sort of way.
More likely, it’s the financial hit they’ll feel. Let’s face it — how well can they possibly be doing financially? This is an independent burrito shop in a medical center food court. They’re not a chain. They don’t have the power of a charismatic spokeschihuahua to keep them going. And there’s literally competition on all sides. They need every dime they can get. And I run like the German trains through that place — five days a week, always on time, with precious few exceptions, whether I need it or not.
(Come to think of it, that’s just about how their burritos run through me. It’s all circles within circles, man. Circles within circles.)
So at some point, I’ve got to break the bad news. Maybe I’ll blurt it out on my last day, or leave them a ‘Dear Juan’ note in the tip jar. Or I’ll have someone else go down in January to say, ‘Oh, that guy? No, he’s loooooong gone now, pardner.‘
Or maybe I’ll tell them tomorrow, if the time is right — and my burrito is already safely in hand. No way am I dropping a bomb before they deliver the daily bag. There’s no telling what I’d get for lunch. Hell hath no fury like a burrito shack worker scorned.
On the other hand, I’m excited about this job — a new group, in a new neighborhood, new work and new possibilities. Also, a new burrito shack. So that’ll be nice. I’ll be a regular in no time, and it’ll be just like the old days.
Until a few years (hopefully!) down the road, when I have to leave this new job for some reason. And then I’ll have to worry about telling that burrito guy good bye. Sheesh. It’s almost enough to make a man bring a brown bag to work.
Yeah. Almost.
Permalink | No CommentsApologies for being a bit sparse here over the last week or so. Rest assured, I’ve not simply been resting on my laurels.
(Particularly considering I’d have to steal someone else’s laurels first, were I inclined to rest upon a set.)
Rather, I’ve been hustling pieces out to meet a number of deadlines — a bit for the Mona Schreiber contest, another for the new Mug of Woe collection, Woe of the Road, and this weekend, the second assignment in the latest NYC Midnight Short Screenplay Challenge.
I bring these things up now, of course, because when the various results, decisions and standings come out, I’m not going to want to talk about it. Also, I’ll sit in my darkened bedroom eating ice cream straight from the tub and badmouthing writing of all kinds. Stupid writing, who does it think it is? I always said we should’ve stuck with hieroglyphs, anyway.
“Stupid writing, who does it think it is? I always said we should’ve stuck with hieroglyphs, anyway.”
In the meantime, I’ve also managed — just — to keep up with my sketch writing class over at ImprovBoston. This week was a ‘free form’ assignment, and I was a bit pressed for time, so I worked up a couple of short numbers. These are both TV commercial parodies — one that my friend Jenn and I talked (read: giggled like drunken schoolgirls) over a while back and I finally wrote up, and another that I can’t blame her, or anyone else, for any part of. Sadly.
So have a look, and be glad these ads aren’t running on your local late-night television station. Yet. Happy weekend.
[Stan, a middle-aged man sits on a couch, reading a newspaper. He serenely flips pages as the announcer speaks.]
ANNOUNCER: Are you afraid of the unknown? Terrified of the consequences of your every decision? Do the simplest questions throw you into a fevered panic?
NANCY: (offscreen) Stanley? What do you want for dinner?
[Stan freezes, wide-eyed with anxiety.]
ANNOUNCER: Well, fear no longer. Home Psychics is here to help.
[Stan smiles, relieved, and looks to his side. A woman in gypsy clothing sits on the other end of the couch, huddling over a crystal ball on the coffee table. She gazes into the ball, waving her hands mysteriously.]
PSYCHIC: I forsee… chicken cacciatore!
[The man beams, giving a thumbs up.
Switch to dining room, where Stan and Nancy are finishing dinner; they chat in the background as the announcer speaks.]
ANNOUNCER: We provide full-time, live-in psychic support to answer all of your most pressing questions. As well as those of your loved ones.
[Stan reaches for an open wine bottle.]
NANCY: Stan, you’ve had three glasses already. Don’t you think that’s enough?
[Stan turns to other side, where psychic is sitting. She has a place setting, but a ouija board instead of a plate. She moves her hands around the board, then shakes her head firmly ‘no’. Stan shrugs at his wife, and smiles as he picks up the bottle and refills his glass.
During next voiceover, a montage of ‘psychic assistance’ shots roll by:
Stan holds up two neckties. Psychic walks toward him with divining rod, eventually pointing to one of the ties.
Stan is in bed, and stirs groggily as though alarm has just gone off. Psychic stands over nightstand, staring intently into a teacup. She makes a ‘cut it’ motion with her hand; Stan hits the snooze alarm and rolls over to sleep.
In the living room, psychic shakes a Magic 8-Ball, reads it, and points to the couch. Stan triumphantly pulls the TV remote from between the cushions.
Stan holds large bottle of antifreeze, prepared to drink it. Psychic flips a coin, looks at it, and shakes her head ‘no’. Stan shrugs, caps the bottle and sets it down.]
ANNOUNCER: You lead a busy life. You can’t be expected to predict the future or unearth the secrets of the universe. That’s where Home Psychics comes in. Our highly sensitive clairvoyants, mentalists and futurecasters are standing by to plumb the depths of the unknown and divine all of the answers you seek. For a low monthly fee, you too can enjoy the exclusive service of a presumably-certified, partially-bonded shaman — or shawoman — of your choice.
[Cut to closeup of psychic, staring mesmerically into camera.]
PSYCHIC: You WILL choose me. I AM the best psychic. I will NOT hock your good china.
[Cut to bedroom. As announcer speaks, camera pans in slowly from side of bed, where Stan and Nancy are under covers. Stan is on top and squirming.]
ANNOUNCER: So call Home Psychics today. Because you don’t have all the answers in life. But *we* do.
[Cut to closeup of couple’s faces — his furrowed in concentration, hers bored.]
NANCY: Is it in yet?
[Stan’s eyes widen; they both look to the other side of the bed, where the psychic is lying on her stomach beside them, with tarot cards dealt. She flips over the final card and shows it to them.]
PSYCHIC: I see… the Hermit!
[Closeup of couple’s faces — his aghast and hers mildly disgusted.
Wider shot of bedroom with overlay containing title ‘Home Psychics’ and logo — a simple stylized house with turban on top — along with slogan “It’s not in until we *say* it’s in!”
In background, Nancy shoves Stan into floor. She reaches over and turns off nightstand lamp. Fade to black.]
[DUANE is in a bar with CAROL, trying to pick her up. He practically drips with sleazy innuendo.]
DUANE: C’mon, baby, let’s go back to my place. I’ll show you my pet ‘python’.
CAROL: I… don’t think that’s-
DUANE: Aw, c’mon! I got a footlong ‘hero sandwich’ in my bedroom with your name on it.
CAROL: I… I don’t know.
DUANE: Baby, please. I’ve got a big huge ‘pipe’ you need to see. It could leak at any moment.
CAROL: Well… all right, fine. Show me the CockFax.
DUANE: What?!
CAROL: The CockFax. Let me see the CockFax.
[The ANNOUNCER enters opposite. As he speaks, Duane pleads with Carol and protests. She remains adamant.]
ANNOUNCER: Look familiar, ladies? Don’t fall prey to false advertising, exaggerated claims or plain old wishful thinking. Before you commit — for a lifetime, or even half an hour — do the right thing. Ask for the CockFax.
[Duane finally relents, and produces a report. Carol reads a few lines and breaks out laughing. Duane slinks away as she laughs and points.]
ANNOUNCER: CockFax is an independent service providing reliable, up-to-date information on your prospective partners’ “endowments”. We provide a free comprehensive Johnson report, including service records, inspection results, odometer readings and flood damage history. Available at any reputable bar, restaurant, meeting place or Greyhound bus station near you.
[Duane returns, with SASHA on his arm, heading past Carol for the door. Carol taps Sasha on the shoulder and whispers in her ear.]
ANNOUNCER: So don’t risk going home with a lemon. Or a baby carrot. Get the info you need, before you do the deed. And always ask:
SASHA: (to Duane) Show me the CockFax!
[Duane slinks off again, alone. The girls slide up to the announcer, who leads them away, one on each arm.]
Permalink | No CommentsI’ve decided to leave my job.
Actually, that’s not completely honest. I decided a little while back to leave my job. But today I’ve decided to write about leaving my job. Big difference. Now it’s serious.
Leaving a job is a funny thing. Most of the time — this time included — when people leave a job, it’s to find another job. That’s the goal: hop directly from one speeding rat racer onto the back of another. Which is sort of odd, if you think about it. There are very few things in life which one leaves, just to glom onto something of the very same kind again.
Take spouses, for instance. One doesn’t — usually — leave one’s spouse simply to jump headfirst into another matrimonial bed. Outside the Maury Povich show and certain late-night weekend Cinemax feature films, that sort of thing is pretty rare.
(To be fair, some spouses do leave their husbands and wives for other people. Fairly regularly, if you believe the TV dramas and reality shows and chat line commercials in vogue these days.
But that’s different. That’s not leaving your wife for another wife. That’s leaving your wife for a busty cheerleader who cooks killer pasta and doesn’t mind you snarfing Cheetos in bed. Never mind whether she actually exists — for some people, the specter of said indulgent culinary cheerleader is enticement enough.
Which is good, I suppose, because a specter’s as close as they’re ever likely to get.
I asked my wife if I could leave my job for a busty rigatoni-rocking Cheeto-enabling cheerleader. She said no. So I’m finding another job, instead. As “Plan B”s go, I can’t say it’s my favorite.)
“Come to think of it, I don’t need a refresher. I need whatever the Twitter version of Cliff Notes is.”
At any rate, I’m leaving my job and finding a new one. It’s not an entirely new experience for me — a sizable portion of my standup material was based on an interview I once had. But that was eight years ago. And frankly, I didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter, having just been unceremoniously laid off, along with many dozens of my closest coworkers after nearly four years on the job.
So it’s been over a decade since I’ve voluntarily taken my ball and gone home. And then taken my ball to some other office and dropped it there, because a man’s gotta work if he’s going to pay for beer and internet and bionic dog hospital bills. But the point is, I could use a refresher on this whole “job hunting” thing. Last time I did this, LinkedIn didn’t exist yet. Now I’m supposed to use it to hypnotize my four-and-a-half connections into giving me job offers, or something. Business is weird.
Come to think of it, I don’t need a refresher. I need whatever the Twitter version of Cliff Notes is. And a 3-D holographic resume, just to get a foot in the door.
Luckily, things appear to be coming together fairly quickly, When you’ve been doing what I do for as long as I have, in the places I’ve been doing it, and with the people I’ve done it with, you wind up making a few connections. No matter what your stupid LinkedIn semi-circle figures want you to believe.
And somewhere along the line — if you’ve ever helped those connections, or worked alongside them, or once offered them a piece of gum, only slightly chewed, for just a nominal gum transfer fee — you might get a boost out of one of them toward a new position. Or a good recruiter. Or a pit of angry vipers.
(This is why I always double-check the address for any set-up “interview” I might be pushed at. Anything on Snake Lane or Adder Way, and I’m out of there.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, and I might not have enough antivenom handy to survive the ordeal. No, thanks.)
So I’ve had some leads, and some interviews, and things are looking good. By next year, I should be wearing a brand new uniform.
(Which is the same old rack of rugbies I’ve always rocked. But somehow, maybe they’ll be just a little brighter, no?)
With the holidays looming, I’ve had to let people at my current job know the score. A few have seemed surprised, maybe even shocked — giggling and gleefully clapping your hands indicates “shock”, right? — but I think most people have seen this coming. I mean, let’s face it. I’m leading a few people right now, and thanks to me we have two team mottoes:
#1. Hope is for babies.
#2. It can always get worse.
Probably not the sentiments of a man content with his current lot. You don’t see a lot of “hope is for babies” in the Dalai Lama’s books, just for instance. Gandhi was ever so slightly more upbeat than that. Hell, for that matter, Edgar Allan Poe was more upbeat. The time, she is ripe.
So it’s off on a new adventure — sort of like the one I was thrust into when I started this site back in mid-2003, when the wheels were clearly coming off my previous job. Will I meet another ZOLTON, PUNISHER OF SOULS? Will I be spat out by some corporate conglomerate machine? Most important, will they let me scarf Cheetos in bed?
These questions and many more shall be answered… as the job turns!
Permalink | No CommentsToday is Saturday, which means it’s Sketch Class Day over at ImprovBoston. Only there was no sketch class today. Something about a “Thanksgiving weekend” gumming up the works.
(Gentle aside / self-plug: you can see my thoughts on Turkey Day over at ZuG.com this time around.
I’m pretty sure you’ll never look at pressure washers — or Grandma’s gravy boat — the same way again.)
Now, I don’t know how long a tryptophan-induced food coma is supposed to last. But I was back on my feet today, and ready to cobble something together for class. But no. Class was canceled for the holiday — so no sketch today.
(What’s stopping me from writing one anyway, you ask? Well, nothing… except lack of a deadline, duh. Who actually accomplishes anything without a scary timer ticking ominously down to zero?
Librarians and UPS drivers, that’s who. Though what the UPS weenies “accomplish” is usually just pissing me off.)
At any rate — no deadline, no writing. As it has always been, and always shall be. Who am I to buck a system that’s been in place for six thousand years, when ancient Mesopotamians said things like, ‘Eh, I could get that TPS report to you today. But I think I’ll wait until we actually invent written language in a few hundred years. Better.‘
Instead, I tackled the other part of our assignment for class. I gave writing’s little brother — or snotty big sister, depending on how you look at it — a whirl: editing. And after half an hour of it, I can say with no small amount of conviction:
Writing’s hard. But editing blows.
Not editing my own stuff, mind you. I edit my own stuff all the time.
“We’ve all made suggestions that have gotten “the face” — that involuntary flash of scrunchy-nosed puzzled repulsion that’s quickly replaced with a kind pat-on-the-head smile and a dutiful jotting-down of whatever outlandish bunch of crack-addled bull hokum was just spouted.”
(Well, not all the time. Clearly.)
Here’s the thing. I have no problem believing I wrote a steaming pile of disjointed moose snot, and that improvements — many, many improvements — are in order. That’s easy. A little self-doubt and fourteen years of English teachers laughing and pointing at my essays — and not in the good way — will land a guy there.
This, though, was different. This was editing someone else’s work. The horror.
On the good side, I was only supposed to ‘make suggestions’ on a script we read in class last time. But we do that in class already — after a readthrough, we all brainstorm about how the script might be tweaked or massaged a bit.
I watch peoples’ faces as we do this, and I can see the confused, bitter — but still polite — anguish that it causes. I might make a suggestion, for instance, and the skit author will try to hide looking pained and disgusted and say something like:
‘Well, yes, I suppose I could write a funny elephant riding a unicycle into my courtroom sketch. Sure. I don’t know why I never thought of that. Uh… thanks?‘
It’s not just me. (This time. I swear.) We’ve all made suggestions that have gotten “the face” — that involuntary flash of scrunchy-nosed puzzled repulsion that’s quickly replaced with a kind pat-on-the-head smile and a dutiful jotting-down of whatever outlandish bunch of crack-addled bull hokum was just spouted.
(Okay, so it’s mostly me. Clearly.)
So now I was asked to make suggestions — just like in class, but in print. Written down in an email, where the author could go back repeatedly and re-read, making “the face” over and over and over again, convulsing in a twisted heap of sweaty incredulity.
I don’t want to do that to a person. Who would want to do that to a person? That’s a terrible thing to do to a person. Especially one who’s presumably still gorged on turkey and cranberries, and in no condition to handle the sweeping waves of nausea my ‘notes’ are likely to induce.
So I kept it short. A quick thought here, a possible suggestion — but only if you want to, and that’s the direction you were going, and anyway, what do I know — there, and I sent it off. Just enough to complete the assignment, but with as little nonsense and spewing as possible.
That was yesterday evening. This morning, I got an email back from the very nice and funny lady who’d written the skit, and she thanked me for the note and the ideas and reminded me that we didn’t have class today, so we’d meet back up in a week to see what comes next.
Which was very nice, considering that what she really wanted to write was something along the lines of:
‘I am NOT putting a goddamned elephant on the witness stand. FORGET IT with the elephant, already. Jackass.‘
Still, she made “the face”. She must have. I just hope she kept her stuffing and gravy down afterward. Otherwise, that next sketch class could get just a mite awkward. And nobody wants that.
Least of all, the elephant.
Permalink | No CommentsOur pooch Susie is home. And she’s recovering nicely. I know this because she’s a royal pain in the ass. That’s a good sign.
A royal pain in the ass. But a good sign.
For anyone catching up, about three weeks ago our mutt lost most all of her energy. And while it was, to a degree, refreshing, to not have to chase her around quite so frantically, it was also pretty concerning.
“As she recovered, the scales tipped. Or if you prefer, dislodged.”
(Okay, fine, she’s twelve and a half. She doesn’t do anything ‘frantically’ that doesn’t involve scarfing a Snausage. She’s still a handful. A slow, crotchety handful is still a handful.)
So when the pup stopped running around — or walking, or moving, for the most part — we took her to the dog-spital to get checked out. They said she had a bad ticker. Best case scenario, if everything else checked out, they’d fit her with a pacemaker. And long story short, that’s what they did.
On Wednesday afternoon, the pooch docs carved into one of her jugular veins and inserted a catheter of some kind with a temporary pacemaker. Then they flipped her over, sliced the other jugular, fed an electrode down her chest and jammed it into her ventricular wall.
Ho hum, right? Happens every day. Barely worth a mention.
She came home on Friday evening, and while the whole experience has been quite an adventure, there are three developments that have really stood out:
Thursday: Even before the mutt got home, she was causing issues.
I’ve mentioned many times in the past that the pooch goes a couple of times a week to a local ‘doggy daycare’ joint.
(It’s actually a legit training center in the basement of a pet supply shop — they teach dogs to sit, stay, fetch, heel, protect, serve, guard, run agility courses and trot on treadmills. But my dog’s been going there for more than a decade — which means she’s done learning. She ain’t picking up new tricks, and she knows all of theirs by now.
Basically, she has her own pillow there and they let her sweep the floor for treats between classes. I wish my kindergarten had been so cushy.)
I take her in for ‘training’ two or three times a week. But on Thursday, I stopped into the shop to buy a harness — her new incisions preclude using a collar — and walked downstairs to fill the trainers in.
I reached the bottom of the stairs, with no dog. I never go down without the dog.
Also, my wife was tagging along. And they NEVER see us down there together. Not for years.
The entire room froze, expecting the worst possible news. At the office, I’m pretty good at ‘managing expectations’, but here I was already deep in a hole. What’s the quickest way to signal, say or sign, ‘MY DOG IS NOT DEAD! STAND DOWN! ALL IS WELL!‘
I didn’t know. So I started shaking my head and wagging my arms back and forth, meaning, ‘no, no, don’t worry‘. They seemed to take this instead as, ‘no, no, the dog is a cheap fur coat by now‘. Which was not the case at all.
(Not until the next time she piddles on our living room carpet, anyway.)
We eventually sorted things out, but we — meaning she — gave the staff quite a scare. Because even unconscious and cut open, Susie still can cause trouble.
Friday: When we got Susie home, the docs told us she’d be perkier, and we might have to keep her settled down, so as not to jostle her new electronic lifesaver.
They lied.
Maybe not ‘lied’, per se. But they were wrong. The pup came out, and she was a lump. A double-scarred, half-shaved, barely-conscious pitiful lump. I had to lift her into and out of the car, and up our three steps to the first floor condo home.
We began to wonder whether they’d buried that pacemaker probe into the right organ. Maybe that thing was zapping her gallbladder instead, because she still looked like she was on her last legs. Meanwhile, they stressed that she needed medication — painkillers, antibiotics, five pills twice a day in all.
Fine, we said. We can always slip her pills in with food and treats. That always works.
She didn’t eat for eighteen hours. Because that was the most difficult thing possible. The bitch is good at this.
We went through the most ridiculous ramp-up to get the pooch back onto food. She had zero interest Friday night. None. By Saturday evening, she’d eat freshly grilled warm chicken — not plain chicken, not cold chicken, and only two little scraps at all. But she ate. Barely.
Then it was any chicken. By Sunday, tuna fish. Then canned food, and plain rice, and favorite treats, and finally — by Tuesday night — dry food, usual diet, and (just like the ‘good old days’) basically anything you put near her face.
So it worked out. But early in the weekend, we were wondering whether they’d have to chop into her jugular again, to mainline IV fluids into her bloodstream or something. I don’t even think she was sick. She was just being difficult.
Saturday:
The other thing the puppy came home with was a list of activity restrictions. The vets told us that we should keep Susie from moving around as much as possible for a few weeks, so the electrode wouldn’t get dislodged. For the first day or so, that didn’t seem like much of a problem. The mutt could barely stand, much less jostle any electrodes.
As she recovered, the scales tipped. Or if you prefer, dislodged.
They told us not to let the dog take the stairs. We told them we only have three stairs, that we live on the first floor. They said that was probably fine, so long as she took it slow and careful. Great, we said. We can totally do that.
On Saturday, when the dog was actually capable of moving, we put the harness on her and led her out for a walk. Slowly and carefully, just like we were told.
She fell down the stairs. Because, naturally.
She was fine. Of the three of us, Susie was the only one who didn’t have a heart attack in the next thirty seconds. And now, we ‘spot’ her every trip outside.
They also told us not to let the dog on the furniture. Perfect. That’s always been our policy, which the dog follows unfailingly. Just so long as we’re in the room.
We go to bed — *zuuuuup*, she hits the couch. This has been the dance for years. For a while, we escalated the fight. We covered the couch with magazines.
She slapped them off. And slept on the couch.
We put books on the couch.
She knocked them off. And slept on the couch.
We put a tarp on the couch.
She climbed underneath. And slept on the couch.
We put a tarp on the couch, then books on top to hold it down.
She knocked off the books, hopped down, climbed under the tarp, and slept on the couch.
So when we got her home, in her weakened and feeble state, we went above and beyond. We pulled in two big, long dining room chairs and lay them strategically across the couch. And we went to bed.
When we woke up, both chairs were still in place, tirelessly guarding the couch.
Between them, tucked among the legs and snoring on the central cushion, was the dog. Sleeping. On the couch.
We had similar issues with her crate. The dog is a strong little mother — a forty-pound pit bull, stocky and buff. Also, stubborn. Particularly when we’re not, as I mentioned, in the room. And she can escape from a crate. Repeatedly. Put a steel bar through the door — it doesn’t matter. We tried it. She’s some kind of Hound-ini. Uncanny.
The docs say put her in the crate when we have to leave her for a while, for her own ‘safety’. Horseshit. This dog would kill herself to get out of the crate, and we’d find her in cardiac failure, bleeding and twitching and panting her last. And doing what else, can you guess? That’s right.
Sleeping. ON THE COUCH.
Yep. It sure is good to have the mutt back. Awesome.
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