Your leaking thatched hut during the restoration of a pre-Enlightenment state.

 

Hello, my name is Judas Gutenberg and this is my blaag (pronounced as you would the vomit noise "hyroop-bleuach").



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   Sally's 17th
Monday, April 9 2012
I did more repottings down at the greenhouse this morning, getting most of my tomato plants out of tiny 14 ounce cans and into gallon-sized pots. There is still a month to go before I can safely plant tomatoes outdoors, and, though they've begun to flower, they've reached the limits of what a bean-canned-sized root ball can provide.

Though she's a shelter dog and there's no way of knowing for sure when it is, Gretchen and I have traditionally celebrated Sally's birthday on April 9th. Today, then, marked her 17th birthday. She's scrawny, nearly deaf, and mostly just hobbles around, occasionally falling down the stairs or getting her collar caught in the shrubbery. But there are still things she likes to do. She hangs out in the kitchen during dinner-preparation time in case there are any dishes in need of cleaning, and, though she is no longer interested in walking anywhere, she still loves to go for rides in the car.
So today, after Gretchen got home from work, we took all the dogs for a ride to Barnyard, the pet supply store out on Route 28. Normally I keep the dogs in the car when I have Barnyard business, but Gretchen had us bring all the dogs into the store with us. There's no telling what kind of chaos can happen when there are three loose dogs in a place like that, particularly given all the doggy treats on display at dog-level (according to Gretchen, "that's their mistake"). Let's just say that shoplifting was rampant, though nobody was doing it quite as shamelessly as Sally, who parked herself back by the pig patellas and caused enough chaos that one of the employees had to come and get us. At the time we were back by the dog collars looking for something with greater visibility for Ramona, who still occasionally likes to park herself in the middle of Dug Hill Road.
We ended up buying a wide range of treats, including the sort of bones that, since the advent of pink slime, have become increasingly anachronistic.
On the drive home, Gretchen wanted to maybe take the dogs for a picnic at the baseball diamonds at the north end of Hurley Mountain Road, but there was a ballgame going on, something we'd never seen before. So then she wanted to take them into a corn field, but by this point my guts were acting up and I thought I might diarrhetically explode, so we nixed that plan and I drove like a maniac homeward and then raced to the brownhouse to decompress. My gut would prove problematic for the rest of the day.
When we gave the bones to the dogs, Eleanor immediately ran off and hid one of them, leaving only two. It proved surprisingly hard to keep everybody happy on this day that was supposed to be one of Sally's happiest.
Meanwhile Gretchen was quickly coming down with a case of the common cold, which she hasn't had in several years.


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