Archives for posts with tag: poodle

I’ve taken three weeks off work (unpaid) thanks to a Minnesota State Arts Board Grant. One of the best and most unexpected things about Minnesota is how supportive it can be of artists. Who knew? I just came here to get an MFA and find a wife. The grant is just icing on the cake.

Anyways, like a said, trying to write a book. I thought it might be good for me to have a little accountability. Thus, I’m going to try to write a little blurb here – if you’ll be kind enough to indulge me – every day or every other day, most days let’s say. Ok deal, most days I’ll check in. Since this is day two I’ll catch you up.

Day One :

I managed to make word inaccessible in on my computer. Yeah. Seriously. I don’t know. Let’s call it self-sabotage. Let’s call it idiocy. Thank goodness for the folks at Best Buy who promised to fix it overnight.

In the meantime, the poodle and I read in the sun:


Day Two:

Computer is back. Great. Now I have to write. FUCK. Ok, that’s ok. I have a degree in this. It’s what I supposedly like to do. Writing is fun. Writing can be fun. Writing isn’t so bad. Oh I should mention I’m also trying to get to my new crossfit gym five days a week during this three week period. Is it avoidance or does it add structure to the day. I’m not sure yet.

We can talk about that tomorrow. Thanks, as always, for listening, sweet blog-friends.


Seventeen years ago a generation of cicadas crawled from an underground slumber in the Iowa soil and screamed for months. They flew about like tiny drunk pilots, slamming into humans and agriculture alike. They ruined a summer’s worth of outdoor picnics. Then – goal accomplished, I assume –  they mated, laid their eggs deep into the ground, and died.

Their babies have arrived. I assure you they scream just as passionately as their forefathers.

The poodle met a few of these new cicadas this weekend. Like most living creatures, they baffled her. She batted them about. Sniffed and snorted. Eventually she took a bite out of one and the screaming stopped. Here, I have photographic proof of the poor bastard:

CicadaHe’s kind of beautiful. Now that he’s quiet.

The poodle feels no shame. She seemed rather pleased with herself and the conquering of an invading army – or at least one enemy soldier. Here she is immediately post-kill:

HappyPoodleMy sweet little happy killer.


The first phase of spring arrived in Minneapolis last week. Not the kind of spring most of the country would recognize. We won’t see tulips and patio beers and open window Saturdays for months. This part of spring is kind of gross.

Our layers of snow and ice have begun to melt. Lakes of brown slush form at each intersection and in potholes big enough to separate a tire from your car. Mountains of snow relinquish the odd objects they’ve swallowed throughout the winter: hubcaps, bits of trash, tree branches, a single shoe.

With this melt, our sweet poodle could finally get a long overdue haircut. The first in three months. We waited so long (too long) because we couldn’t bear to remove those curls. We couldn’t bear to see her tiny body shiver before we’ve walked even halfway around the block. She needed those curls to keep her warm through this hellish winter.

I give you the poodle, before and after:


Our fluffy lion turns into a delicate deer.

The wife watched a video on her phone while we waited for the potatoes to finish baking. A little dog yelped from within the phone. Our poodle jumped into action – to save us from the invaders, of course.

We still can’t convince her that her worry is for naught:


We’ve been talking about building a fire pit since we bought our house six months ago. Work and time and a wedding and sunny patios with cold beer got in the way. Then the leaves started to turn. Squirrels started burying walnuts in our flower pots. Our sensitive poodle got extra snuggly. Fall arrived.

It’s time for a fire.

The internets told us building our own simply fire pit wouldn’t be too hard – just fifty bucks and an hour or so. Today I learned the internet is always right. Always. We documented our adventure to prove it:

Step 1: Rip up the soil.


Step 2: Level the bricks and let the wife relocate a little worm because she is a wealth of compassion:


Step 3: Allow a toy poodle to inspect.


Step 4: Bask in the glory that is the finished product. Bask.


This is going to be a lovely fall.

Maybe it’s the military in me. I like to know what’s going on in my neighborhood. I can’t help looking up to see who is walking by. I like to know who lives where. What cars belong to what homes. If the fight the neighbors across the street had last week means they are breaking up. Or have broken up. Or will break up. If the pack of kids streaming down the sidewalk belong to our street or if they might be passersby who will knock over my flowers. Yeah, that kind of crotchety old lady at my house. I’ve accepted that label.

Lately there has been a lot to watch, too much maybe.

At least the dog helps:


I care more now that I own a house. No one else will. I have no landlord to blame for the state of things. No one else is going to mow the lawn or pull the weeds or take out the trash or call the cops when suspicious things happen in the alley. That’s on us. I still need to learn, however, how not to see the boogie man around every corner, in every slow driving car.

I’ll work on that.

Spring starts this week and Minnesota is teasing us with a bright blue sky. Blue sky and sun and a bitter cold you typicaly associate with mid-January. We know better than to try and fight it. I’m tired of making the best of a cold day. Our quick two block walk this morning was enough.

We’re just going to ignore the forecast and pretend that only the sun matters:


Happy St. Patrick’s Day, friends.

While I was away for the weekend, the dishwasher decided that instead of draining the water like normal it would just go ahead and put all of that nasty water onto the kitchen floor – and some in the basement for good measure. Luckily, my sweet, quick thinking girl and her super poodle were there to mop up the mess. And call a plumber. And momentarily question why owning a home seemed like a good idea.

The plumber showed up yesterday to put our fears at ease. It wasn’t such a big deal and the poodle loved him, as you can see:

She doesn’t usually care for strangers. Maybe this guy had a good vibe. Maybe the smells of what he pulled from the depths of our drains entranced her. Or, maybe she knew the work he did would make us a little friendlier in the days to come.

I have a bit of a writing assignment at hand so I spent the morning cleaning. One simply cannot write amid such disorder. I tell myself that if I can just organize my desk and do the dishes and change that light bulb that went out last week then I’ll be able to write. Then I will write brilliance.

The poodle knows I’m full of shit and she does NOT trust the vacuum.



The first time we held the dog over water, she paddled her little puppy paws in the air. These days, she will fetch a tennis ball until those little paws can barely hold her up. Even then she wants to go just one more time. She is made to swim (and take long walks on the beach).

I’m going to miss summer.

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