Living Underground

My dog appears to be having a nervous breakdown of sorts. He was very ill over Thanksgiving when someone (and I'm not pointing any fingers at Koly McBride), fed him fists full of turkey, ensuring the complete stoppage of his colon. The flow has resumed, but twice now since we took him to the vet the week after Thanksgiving, he's had these strange nights where he turns into that creepy little girl from "The Ring." You know which one ... "she never sleeps." And last night was one of those nights, where he sits and stares at the bedroom door, or paces and paces and then stares some more, then whines and scratches at the door to go out, and whines and scratches to come back in.

In short, the Oliver's kind of become an asshole.



Speaking of nervous breakdowns, tonight we were fighting over the shower. Well, two of us were—me and eldest. He was tormenting me and tormenting me, and acknowledging he was tormenting me by saying, "For the half hour each day you're awake and here, I need to drive you to the point of a nervous breakdown." Meanwhile, Chuck and Oliver were in bed, Oliver gnawing on his stuffed flea and Chuck trying to prevent him from gnawing on his stuffed flea by wrestling it away from him. Much growling ensued. It's exactly how you want to interact with a dog who appears to be losing his mind right before bedtime.

There is water in my upstairs bathtub, which the Oaxacans installed last week before they left. Unfortunately there's no heat upstairs yet, otherwhise I would be in the tub, with a rubber duckie, a margarita and a trashy novel, avoiding the creepy little dog and the agitator teenage boys.



Al and the Oaxacans are due in tomorrow, at which point they will begin texturing the walls. Three coats, sanded in between ... because the coat down here in the basement where we're living now, is cheap hotel with a touch of sleaze.