Suzy Says

Before I head off to the conference and the family reunion, here’s an update. Wish me luck with the flying portion of the adventure: Now With Even More Annoyances!

Appliances:

You’ve probably guessed by now that the guy who brought me the previously-enjoyed dryer wasn’t an axe murderer, or if he was, he was an inefficient one, since here I am, blogging away. He turned out to be a genial retired engineer who now amuses himself by being a handyman. He took away the dead dryer and installed the live one, which is approximately three times more efficient than the old one. To be fair, the former dryer was Harvest Gold, so you know it was at least as old as it looked and acted (unlike Me). When he asked for a sock or something to put over one of the mysterious dryer parts, he was taken aback to be given a silk stocking. He took it from my hand like it was atomic. It only had a run in it.

The coffeemaker has added an annoying variation to its peeing all over the counter. Now it keeps about half of the water poured into it in the little basket with the coffee, so it looks like a miniature La Brea Tar Pit in there. Amazingly, I can’t figure out what’s wrong with it, so it may join the Harvest Gold* dryer if it doesn’t straighten up and brew right. Of course, I could just give up coffee, but no. Which brings us to…

Detox:

Yesterday, my trainer told me I had a “glow” about me. I’m thinking it was the new lipgloss and dyed eyelashes, but of course I thanked him modestly. Later I wondered if it was “glow” as in my grandmother’s euphemism for sweat, or a sneaky way of keeping me motivated about the detox. Suspicious Minds, indeed.

Cautiously, I will admit that I do feel better. I still have trouble getting to sleep and wake up feeling drugged (not in a good way), but the withdrawal seems to have withdrawn. However, all this may be undone by the dehydrating effects of air travel and wine (upon arrival, if not en route). If I can be 80% good while I’m away, I’ll be glad. I’d hate to go through all this for nothing, and the thought of starting all over again fills me with horror.

Antidepressant-wise, I’m down to one big one (75 mg) and one little one (35 mg) a day. I’m hoping to be off them by Thanksgiving. That will give me something to be truly thankful for. Also, there’s no way I’m going on them again, so let’s hope the gym regime is enough to shore up my tenuous mental health.

I think the people on that website got better and/or additional drugs, ’cause I ain’t never been that happy unassisted.

I’ve shelved the weekend film fests for now, because, really, what’s fun about a Good Girl Good Movie festival?

Rita-Belle!

I don’t know why I call her that, but I do. Must be ’cause she’s so purty. Actually, she’s slightly less lovely than she was last week. On Friday, I noticed a hot spot on her shapely butt. Not the useful kind, or the fun kind, but the oogy kind. Called the vet in a panic and brought her in the next day. Poor Rita had her behind shaved around the spot, and poor Suzy had to buy special stuff to put on it twice a day, plus more ear stuff (also twice a day). What with blood test re-takes and other miscellany, guess how much it cost?

I’m beginning to think the vet is buying a small Caribbean island at my expense.

While I’m away, Charlie, the giver of fabulous gifts whenever he goes away, has agreed to take care of La Rita, so I wanted to make sure she was in excellent shape before handing her over. He’s been single since the Bush Senior administration, so maybe he’ll meet the girl of his dreams while walking Rita at the park. I should probably get him a present either way.

*Harvest Gold and Avocado Green were the favored colors of the 1970s, as I recall, but wasn’t there a sort of brick-red or brown one, too?

Not as fun as T & A, but here goes:

Q: Are you a comment tease?

A: No, I’m lacking in techpertise (or techpertease, if you prefer). I thought I had turned on the comments, but I was wrong. You know how that can happen. Turning on does not seem to be my forte. At least I can make hollandaise sauce. And a great big noisy fuss.

Q: Why is Rita like a box of cigars?

A: They cost the same. I bought a box of good cigars for our biggest client (it wasn’t for them, I’d be living in a cardboard box under the freeway) and it was a surprising $250. Yikes. I’m theoretically going to be reimbursed for them, but considering the theoreticalness of getting paid, breath-holding is not in order.

Turns out the Actual Owner has not taken Rita to the vet for 4 YEARS. That’s 29 years in dog years, and considering that Rita is now a venerable 11 ?, I thought it was inexcusable. So we went to the vet, where her records had to be unearthed from the basement, and had a thorough check-up, blood testing, the works. Rita enjoyed it about as much as I enjoy the annual ritual of mammogram and Pap test, but endured it with much less complaint.

She’s in good shape for a vintage girl, but she’s the Nicole Richie of dogs, weighing in at a mere 44 pounds. The vet said to feed her twice a day instead of once. She also had an ear infection, so I’ve been putting drops in her ears twice a day. My popularity with my almost dog is probably at an all-time low, but I’ll be finished with the drops in a couple of days. The cost of the whole thing was $250, just like the cigars*, but worth it. I’m so glad she’s OK.

I’m so annoyed that Actual Owner didn’t get her shots and check-ups done for so long. John and I used to use our tax return to get all the cats checked out every year, and if they needed something extra, like dental work, we just did without to pay for it. When you adopt a dog or cat, you get all the responsibility as well as all the cuteness, and it’s for the rest of their lives.

Good thing I haven’t run into AO. If he has the nerve to ask for her back, I’ll tell him he has to pay me back for the vet, the grooming, the dog food, and the cost of boarding her Chez Moi for the past three months. Say $30 a day for 90 days – $2,700. Also nice in theory.

Q: Why is a raven like a writing desk?

A: I haven’t the slightest idea.

*Apparently nearly everything costs $250. I just refilled my prescription for the Evil Effexor and it cost, you guessed it, $250. I hope it’s the last time I have to buy it – talk about an expensive drug habit!

I don’t know if it’s the dog days or the death days, but my creativity seems to have withered like the pansies in my windowbox during the heatwave. The heatwave is mercifully over, but inside my head looks like one of those bleak landscapes by Salvador Dali (of course, the watches have melted from the heatwave, and my landscape would be littered with martini glasses, lipstick, and a scattering of diamonds, but you get the picture). No movie nights, no reminiscences, no nothing.

However, all this should change this weekend, when I am finally able to attend my dear Kathleen’s Birthday Baseball Extravaganza. For the past two years, Mom was either dying or dead, so I had to send my truly regretful regrets, but this year, I can join a couple dozen of Kathleen’s closest friends and admirers at the Detroit Tigers game on Saturday! I’m also planning to take the Ford Factory Tour, only fitting for a girl whose only car was a Ford.

In construction site news, yesterday the big crane managed to hit an electrical wire, causing a power outage chez moi, and, less importantly, the entire block. Fortunately, I was out for several hours going to the gym and primping (I had my eyebrows threaded for the first time and the results are fab) for the Birthday Baseball Extravaganza. When I got home, the power was back on, and Rita thought I looked mahvelous. She should know.

Rita’s charm seems to be off the charts these days. Maybe it’s the grooming, maybe it’s just her native loveliness, but when I was walking her the other evening, an older gentleman came out of his house as we passed to pet her and fuss over her. When the construction workers convene in the morning, they fuss over her, too, and sometimes give her part of their lunches. She’s the Queen of the ‘Hood. Guess that makes me her Lady in Waiting*.

*Especially when she’s sniffing around in the bushes so long that I’m afraid she’s found a body.

In the stranglehold of the hideous heat wave, all I could do was whimper, like the Wicked Witch of the West, “I’m melting!”, only meaner and greener.

After I walked Rita, we’d both lie in front of the air conditioner panting and cursing global warming, or whatever had brought this hellish doom upon us. I don’t mind telling you that it made me one crabby little crab cake. I think it made Rita a little on the cantankerous side, too, since she:

• Got into a fight with a total stranger, which of course was a show dog, so the owner freaked out over my lower class mutt arguing with her upper class whippet, even though Snotty Dog started it.
• Decided to embarrass her lovely walking companion by leaving a modestly-sized, though not modestly-placed, calling card on the sidewalk. Right in front of an irate old gentleman, laden down with bags full of wine. I think he was red-faced before he started yelling at me, but I’m not sure. He had one of those career drinker faces. Unfortunately, I was temporarily without removal equipment, having foolishly thought that I had completely emptied Rita out at the park a mere two hours earlier. I apologized, and when he kept on ranting, I explained to him that the world was an ugly place and you had to expect these things if you left your own home. He was not appeased and exited stage right, muttering. Maybe I should have tried to convince him it was one of those alcoholic hallucinations, like pink elephants.
• Started calling the Neighbor Dog names when we were outside his house. They have always hated each other, I know not why, and insult each other vociferously on sight. Neighbor Dog’s owner had carelessly left her gate open, so I had to drop my grocery bags and try to restrain my pugilistic pooch while shutting the gate before Neighbor Dog could get out and get really physical. Didn’t work. I managed to catch Neighbor Dog and shove him back in and close the gate before blood was shed, but barely. They kept yelling the canine version of “Yo’ mama” insults while I picked up groceries and hustled Miss Rita home.

Hence the inability to plan any kind of movie fest this weekend, though I did catch a hilarious little gem called The Violent Years (1956) – “Untamed thrill-girls of the highway!” – in which bored teenage girls dress as boys to rob gas stations. When the fun of armed robbery palls, they attack a couple necking in their car, tying up the female half with surprisingly neat strips torn from her skirt and leaving her in the back seat of the car wearing nothing but a slip while they haul the male half into the woods to have their wicked way with him. Pretty racy stuff, but what else would you expect from a screenplay by Ed Wood? Turns out that the whole problem was caused by these misguided teens’ parents working and/or socializing too much and not spending time with them and explaining to them right (doing homework) from wrong (committing felonies). If you’re a parent, take note before it’s too late!

And if you see the Two Grumpy Old Ladies heading your way, flee. And your little dog, too!

I took Rita to the beauty parlor today.

I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not because I’m trying to make Rita as girlish as I am. I think if she were a human, she’d be like Ida Lupino: smart, tough, sexy – more of a tomboy than a glamor girl. But it’s been so damn hot lately that the poor thing has shed enough fur to stuff a sofa. I figured she was miserable in her disheveled fur coat, so I took her to the dog salon.

You will be relieved to hear that I drew the line at pawlish. Nor did I have her fur shaved and shaped into silliness. They did trim her nails, though. It seems that the Actual Owner never had her groomed, so there was a decade’s worth of dead hair to remove. The whole thing took more than two hours, so it really was a job for the professionals.

Now Rita’s all clean and shiny and ready for her close-up!

Rita and I were partners in crime today!

We both woke up early this Sunday morning, and the park beckoned. It was a glorious morning, the sky a cloudless blue, the sun warm and benign, but with a hint of the malevolence to come (is there anywhere in the entire US of A that isn’t too hot?). The air was cool and infused with summer flowers, and not one car drove down our street. It was as if we had the whole city to ourselves.

I could tell Rita was in a naughty mood, because she teased a cat – she usually ignores them, as if they are beneath her notice – and I had to convince her of the error of her ways. It’s not nice to tease cats, especially heavily pregnant ones, as this kitty was. Rita may have forgotten that cats have claws, and that mama cats are never pushovers, and I didn’t want her to learn the hard (or sharp) way.

Before we reached the park, Rita got distracted by the brick road leading to a long disused factory. Grass and wildflowers had grown tall in the cracks between the bricks, and as she followed her nose, I followed her, ignoring the ?No Trespassing? signs, caught up in the moment. I let her off the leash, and she pranced through the grass and flowers like a little circus horse. I laughed out loud with delight at her delight. She rolled around in the fragrant greenery, and I just kept laughing. It was a magic, sunny moment.

We were both young again, both happy. Together.

The overwhelming heat and the overwhelming amount of work I’ve had in the past week have resulted in stupor for Suzy. Looking at the weather map, it seems the entire country, except possibly Seattle, is either literally or figuratively burning up. In this case, I’m pretty sure that misery does not love company.

Here’s what been going on around here:

Work

Apparently, I am now a consultant. I find this slightly unnerving, since it sounds like a grown-up job that I may not in fact be grown-up enough for. Also, it reminds me of this New Yorker cartoon. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.

Gym

Still going three days a week. Not obviously thinner – I feel I’m more Star Jones: the early years than, say, Kate Moss, but definitely stronger. My easily amused Self never gets tired of opening jars with her newly-acquired super-strength. I feel like a very minor super-heroine.

Pill rehab continues apace. I’m pleased to announce that as of next week, I’ll be down to two 75 mg pills a day. So far, so good. No psychotic episodes, crying jags, or tropical depressions. Now I can laugh carelessly when I pass the conveniently located nearby loony bin, confident that I will not be among their number any time soon.

Rita

Rita-Belle loves the heat as much as I do, i.e., not at all. Our strolls have slowed to moseys, as we drag our tails around (too bad owners don’t look like their dogs – Rita is Hollywood thin). When we get home, we hit the water with the alacrity of someone who has crawled across the Mojave.

Last week, the Actual Owner turned up on my doorstep, accompanied by a friend, and asked to “borrow” Rita for a few days. The presence of the friend made it impossible for us to have the Talk about our Relationship (normally something I avoid like housework), and AO left with the chilling words, “I’ll call you.”

Like every girl who hears those words, I spent the next few days wondering if it was the usual boy code for “You will never see me again.” Should I call him? What if he doesn’t call? All with no Rita to comfort me. It gave me a horrifying dating flashback. I wanted to rinse out my mind with minty fresh Scope.

Fortunately, she was returned to me just three days later, though with the caveat that AO’s friend would be taking Rita to the country for the month of August. I was jealous of the friend, happy for Rita, who could bound around freely and chase squirrels in relative coolness, and sad to know I’d be without her for a month. Will I get her back afterwards?

Dog days, indeed.

PS: Hey Raven – happy birthday, kiddo!

On the way to the park today:

A limo pulled into the parking lot of the slaughterhouse. I figure the driver must have made a mistake, but apparently not, since it was still there when Rita & I came back from the park. Why? Or more importantly, why?

Two cops were discussing the “bottoming out” party at the construction site across the street. They?ve had a long day, standing in the sun and directing traffic as trucks go in and out. One says to the other, “That beer sure looked good. Should?ve had us some.” The other replies, shaking his head, “Too many eyes, my friend. Too many eyes.”

A paintbrush was lying on the steps of the (closed) custom paint store.

A car was driving the wrong way down my one-way street. In an effort to avoid oncoming traffic, swerves onto sidewalk and knocks over construction-site related traffic cones. No injuries, but lots of in-car yelling and hand gestures.

At the park:

Rita finds a neon pink tennis ball and grabs it. An irate sweaty guy comes running out of the tennis court, yelling, “That’s my ball!” Rita, thinking he was playing, or just feelin’ mischievous, runs to the other end of the park, with Sweaty Guy in hot pursuit. I yell at her to let go of it, but she won’t. I think she’s laughing at the stupid, powerless humans. Sweaty Guy finally gets his ball, and stalks angrily and sweatily past my apologies. Rita and I slink away, both thinking, “Why didn’t he just get another ball out of the can?” and snickering.

Said the Lady of Suzy*.

It’s a beautiful summer morning. Sunny, breezy, perfect. Rita and I are walking to the park, when, WHAM! It’s her Actual Owner. He says he wants to take her back. I am horrified and too surprised to be polite. To the point where he says he’ll call me later.

He does, and my lack of enthusiasm for giving him back his dog is obvious, even over the phone. He finally admits that he has not yet discussed adding Rita to the menage of two small children with his fiancee, whose children they are. I suggest, as nicely as I can, that he damn well does before wrenching Rita away from me. Many mothers would not care to expose their babies to a German Shepherd who has not been around kids much and who is used to being the center of attention. Not to mention her lack of enthusiasm for relinquishing the ball. The potential for problems seems pretty big.

Really, his fear of confrontation is world-class. Can’t talk to his woman, can’t talk to his unpaid dog caretaker. Just lacking in girl skills? I’m thinking yes, since Rita was the only one in his life for 10 years. Excusable? No. If he’s going to be a husband and father, he needs to get over himself. Soon.

Fortunately, the lapse between the park encounter and the phone call was long enough for me to stop weeping at the prospect of a Rita-less life, get mad, and start doing some research to back up my belief that Rita and I are meant for each other and that we are both too old for toddlers on a daily basis. Visitors are welcome (especially Mike & Jennifer’s). I’m determined to fight for her.

Who knew the fun part of the day would be mailing in a request for a certified copy of my marriage license, so I can get the divorce going? That seems to be a sad comment on the state of my existence.

*With apologies to Alfred, Lord Tennyson. And for those of you about to point this out, I know I’m no lady.

Note to Self:

Do not, under any circumstances, leave bags of groceries on the kitchen floor and then go out again. You will regret it.

I abandoned my freshly-purchased foodstuffs on the kitchen floor in order to amble another errand. Imagine my surprise when I came home to discover that Rita had taken advantage of my absence and ignorance of dogs’ devious ways to eat:

– An entire bunch of asparagus; and

– An entire lemon tartlet.

She certainly has interesting (and luxurious) taste in food. Makes a change from the same ol’ kibble, I guess, but dang. I have a feeling that I will be seeing the tart and aspagus again within the next 24 hours.

On the bright side:

Rita’s alleged owner Phil called last night to see how she was (after 6 weeks). No mention was made of his taking her back, so maybe she’s all mine! Grocery-stealing and all!

There was a knock at the door this morning. Rita started barking, like the good watch dog she is, explaining to the visitor that any evil deeds toward her girl would be rewarded with teeth and claws. Rita got to the door before I did, my heart pounding with fear in case it was Phil repoing Rita. Could Fate be that cruel?

Fate wasn’t. Imagine my relief when I found out that it was only a Jehovah’s Witness/Witless. Rita and I both told him how very uninterested we were, and shut the door. I bet it’s one of the few times someone was actually relieved to see one of those itinerant religion-pushers.

They can certainly be persistent. One actually found his way to my brother’s house a few years ago. Bear in mind that my brother lives at the end of a long dirt road in the depths of the country. I don’t know why the guy thought there were any souls to be saved there, but he didn’t get the chance, since my brother greeted him with his barking dog and a shotgun (unloaded), saying, “We don’t need no God ’round here.” The missionary departed hastily, mission unaccomplished.

I hope possession really is 9/10 of the law, because I still have Rita, and after a month of her undivided adorableness, I really don’t want to return her to her lawful owner. I haven’t heard a peep from him lately, so I’m hoping he feels too guilty to take her away, and/or realizes that she’s perfectly happy with me and my toddler-free zone.

After looking at her picture, can you blame me?

And it’s not just Self who finds her irresistible. Far from it. One day in the park, all the dogs were cavorting around her. And yesterday, a big French poodle seemed to fall head over paws for her at first sight. He followed her around in the manner of Pepe Le Pew, and like the cats who so attracted Monsieur Le Pew, Rita was uninterested and unimpressed. This progressed to irritation when her admirer wouldn’t stop sniffing her butt. She had things to do. She looked at me pleadingly, and I managed to distract Monsieur Poodle long enough for her to get things done. I thought he was going to follow us home. Ah, those amorous Frenchmen!

On to the dog supply store, where dog treats are displayed on shelves at dog level on the outside part of the counter where the cash register is. I know that this is the usual method of selling impulse purchases, but it seems to me that the dogs are more likely to simply grab a treat and not pay for it. Possibly dogs are more polite and self-controlled than I give them credit for, but I still think it’s weird.

Time to wander home. Fortunately, Rita and I are tolerant of each other’s window shopping, hers for news of neighborhood dogs, and mine for shoes and handbags. We’re meant for each other.

Given the spate of bad birthdays lately, I decided it’s time to stem that tide. No Birthday Week – just a Birthday Weekend. Baby steps, my friends. Here’s the plan:

Saturday:

Sleep in.

Walk Rita.

Check mail for cards’n’presents.

Mani-pedi. Possible nail art, but I’m leaning toward French toes & fingers.

Walk Rita again to show off Rita and nails.

Bad Girl Bad Movie Fest: She Shoulda Said No (1949): “How Bad Can a Good Girl Get…Without Losing Her Virtue and Self-Respect?”

Accompanied by champagne. As classy as it gets ’round here.

Sunday:

Sleep In.

Walk Rita.

Brunch with friends and admirers, including mimosas, and I’m almost certain, Eggs Florentine.

Possibly more cards’n’presents.

Leisurely shopping for fun things. Probably window shopping, but still.

Birthday dinner: at fancy-pants restaurant, or Do It Myself lobster fest with all the fixin’s. More champagne. Maybe a cupcake.

Not feeling a day older than 18. Yes, yes.

Really, I should change my blog’s name to DogBlog, since my almost-dog seems to be my favorite topic these days. I’ve had Miz Rita’s company for almost three weeks straight, so I’m beginning to feel less like the Other Owner (much like being the Other Woman, only without the guilt and scandal) and more like the Actual Owner. I pretty much take credit for her now when strangers admire her, and have even begun to accessorize her presence in my life by buying her a brush, bowls, and her very own bed.

Rita woke me up at 6:30 this morning, with a request for a walk. While dog walking is about the only thing I can do when pre-caffeinated, 6:30 is not, in my opinion, a good time to do it. I tried to explain to Rita that the only 6:30 I use is the evening one, when it’s time for cocktails, starting dinner (or thinking about starting dinner), and avoiding the evening news. I got the big eyes, so I hauled Self out of my cozy bed and pulled a coat on over my nightgown, shoving my feet into sneakers on my way out the door.

I was horrified to discover how many people are out and about at such an early hour. The construction workers were all convening to start on the daily ration of roar and racket at the site across the street, and they were feeling all friendly. I was feeling all embarrassed in my dog walking attire, which was even worse than usual. I was glad not to be a celebrity, since I would have been prime tabloid fodder with my un-brushed hair, no make-up, glasses, and next to homeless person outfit.

No fewer than three people stopped to pet Rita and chat within the space of one block. I couldn’t wait to get behind the building to the vacant lot where no-one would see me. And I sneaked back in through the back door, unphotographed.

I sure love that dog!

Escorting Miz Rita around has made me notice my surroundings more, especially now that she’s the Dog Detective, meandering along and sniffing thoroughly to discover who’s been there and what they’ve been up to. It seems that investigation is more interesting than chasing the ball these days, though she remains the terror of pigeons and squirrels alike.

While waiting for Rita to be ready to move on to the next scent, it occurred to me that the zoning on my street must be on the eccentric side, if not on the wild side. Within one block, there are:

• A Domino’s Pizza.
• A huge construction site with accompanying noise, from workers and machinery alike (Question: why are men so fascinated with construction sites? Even on days when no-one’s working, there is always at least one guy standing there, staring at the rubble as if the answer to the universe is there.).
• Narrow Victorian row houses (former housing for workers in the former coffin factory down the street?).
• A halfway house and daycare.
• The former coffin factory, where I live (in what used to be the wood working shop). It’s an unofficial live-work place, housing artists, photographers, and miscellaneous businesses, including a one man printing press and a paint store specializing in reproducing antique colors and finishes.
• An art gallery.
• A City building, suitably bland, with a sign saying “Corporate Services”.
• A restaurant with a sign that says “Speedy Restaurant” on one side and “Smile Restaurant” on the other. It’s never open. Once I saw an elderly Chinese woman scuttle in and slam the door, though. She wasn’t smiling, but she was definitely speedy.
• Behind the Speedy/Smile restaurant is a slaughterhouse, which can be all too fragrant at times.

For all these things to be on one block, the zoning laws must be the legal equivalent of Miss Havisham, or Mad King Ludwig of Bavaria. No wonder I fit right in.

Rita and I ambled some errands together this weekend. Remarkably, there are stores which do not enjoy Rita’s presence, even though she is better-behaved and sheds less than I do. It may have something to do with how she, like the Queen*, rarely carries cash.

I left her outside one of these biased establishments, and when I came out, she was barking at two guys who had stopped to pet her. I apologized, and Guy One said, “She must smell my dog on me.” Guy Two said, “Nah, she just doesn’t like him. I don’t, either!” and they walked away, laughing.

I think she’s just getting choosier these days. I mean, I’m not too crazy about strange guys walking up to me on the street and petting me, either. Rita and I also share an aversion to small, yappy dogs, though this does not extend to puppies. Puppies are always good.

*Imagine how weird it would be to carry around money with your face on it? And do her kids have to do it? If they did, the money would literally be a note from their mother.

“Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds”* – nor dog guardians, even part-time ones, from walking their charges. Fortunately, the rain had stopped by the time I took Rita to the park.

Rita is really very attractive. Not only did she get the attention of the Meet Cute guy and his dog (sadly, I haven’t seen them again, though I hope that they’re still together), but today she literally got a follower – an adorable brown Labrador puppy!! He was so darling I could hardly stand it. He came bounding over to Rita and sniffed her enthusiastically, tail wagging madly, bouncing with puppy joy (the most joyful kind of joy).

Rita, being a grande dame at approximately 70 people years**, was not as enthusiastic about the puppy as the puppy was about her, or I was about the puppy. She walked majestically off, and the puppy followed her faithfully, trying to charm her with his antics. She remained un-charmed. I didn’t. The puppy’s guardian let me pick him up (the puppy, I mean, not the guy) and cuddle him. This didn’t last long, as the puppy wanted to play with Rita, not me.

Finally, we went our separate ways. I want to get a puppy and name him/her Taxi. Then I’ll always get a Taxi when I call for one, whether there’s rain, heat, or gloom of night. But only if Rita approves.

Update: I was having a bath when it started thundering outside. Rita came into the bathroom to hide from the thunder (she hates it as much as I do), while I contemplated the advisability of having a bath in a thunderstorm. Rita and I both got through the storm unscathed.

*I thought this phrase was the motto of the US Postal service, but according to the Big Apple, it’s actually a bon mot of Greek historian Herodotus, who wrote it before the birth of Christ or the Post Office.

**Another misconception: one dog year equals seven human years. It’s more complicated than that. You can calculate your dog’s human age here. Warning: it doesn’t go beyond 15 years, which is quite depressing when your part-time pooch is 11.

Faithful readers may remember that Phil, the owner of Rita the Wonder Dog, fell in love last Fall. It’s been good news all around: Phil is now engaged, and I have become a part-time dog owner. Phil’s fianc&eacutee has two small children, who have yet to understand how to play with a dog of a certain age (or any dog). Oddly, dogs tend to dislike having their ears pulled, or being ridden like a horse. So do most people, in most circumstances.

So Phil quite often leaves Miss Rita with me while he tends to his other family. I have to admit to a certain indignation on Rita’s behalf, being that he kind of ditches her in favor of the new family, but I love her company and she does make me get some much-needed cardio. The canine timeshare has progressed to the point that I just keep a leash and a supply of Rita food on hand at all times, and she has her own bed beside mine.

On Valentine’s Day morning, I took her for a walk in the park. She is so well-behaved that I always let her off the leash. She soon met a big black dog with a curved tail, who bounded happily toward her. After the customary butt-sniffing niceties, they ran off to play together. The black dog’s owner was a handsome young man with bright blue eyes. He confided that the dog had followed him home the night before. The dog had no collar or tags, but he looked well-fed and was very sweet-natured.

The guy said the dog followed him all over his apartment that night. He called the Humane Society and Animal Control, and they both said that if no-one had called looking for the dog within three days, the dog was his. The guy said, “I only have a one bedroom apartment.” Pause. “And now it seems really small.” I said, “Well, it looks like you got yourself a dog.” He said, “I know”, and laughed.

Wouldn’t that make a perfect Meet Cute for a movie?

Paint It Black

Today I followed the Rolling Stones’ advice and painted my front door black (though I probably wouldn’t take their advice on anything else, especially dating and cosmetic surgery). It’s all shiny and looks great. Now, if I could just find a way to haul home the two cement lions discarded outside a defunct night club down the street, I’d be all set.

Somehow painting your door black seems so Halloween. I also have a plastic light-up pumpkin in my window, but I doubt if I’ll get any trick-or-treaters, since I’m a little off the beaten track. The building was originally a coffin factory (and how Halloween is that?) in the 19th century. It was built onto as needed, so it’s full of strange passages (some underground) and weirdly-shaped rooms. Some of it is used as businesses, but most are live-work lofts, though officially, no-one lives here.

The part I live in is the former woodworking shop, and is attached to the big building, but has its own front door. Everyone else has to share. And to get to my shiny black door, you have to go through a semi-creepy brick, pigeon-infested passageway and then there’s the courtyard and Chez Suzy.

This can be a little annoying when having necessities of life like booze and groceries delivered, since I almost inevitably get a semi-irate delivery guy on his cell phone, saying, “I’m right outside, where are you?” and I have to direct him in. Nothing like a guy frustrated from making his delivery, is there?

In other building news, Boob Girl has been thrown out of her roommate’s apartment, but is still living somewhere in the building. Rumor has it that it’s a windowless room which used to be an office. Charlie has stopped answering his door at night.

Phil, the owner of Rita the Wonder Dog, has a new ladylove, which is good for me, since I get to keep Rita when he’s away at his girlfriend’s overnight. And you know how love is, especially in the first throes. So I get companionship, too, and I have to get my voluptuous butt out to the park twice a day to walk the dog, so that’s good, too.

However, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to picking up poop. I’m just not scatologically inclined. I laughed so hard when I read this on PostSecret. I wonder if I could teach an old dog that new trick?

Well, the good will toward the Howler has left the building as suddenly as it came. She escaped through the window again, only this time, she attacked Rita the Wonder Dog, who was on her way home with her owner after spending the weekend with me. It was a brief, yet terrifying encounter. No-one was hurt, and I hope Upstairs Guy is suitably embarrassed. They have caused an astonishing amount of trouble in the short time they have lived here. Talk about getting off on the wrong foot (or paw)!

My sister had an unpleasant experience of her own this weekend. While swimming at the river, someone stole her wallet out of the trunk of her car. No-one locks their car doors there in the depths of the country, but she figured, why tempt people more than necessary, so she put the wallet in the trunk. One of the other swimmers left, and then came back to tell my sister and the other swimmers that her car had had its windshield smashed.

I would have gone up right away to see if my car had been interfered with, but Megan figured, it is what it is, and finished her swim before returning to the parking lot. There was a whopping six dollars in the wallet, and now she has to replace her ambulance driver’s license along with her regular one, and all the other stuff. The worst thing was she carried around a little something I sent with her for encouragement as she nursed Dad through his last illness, and now it’s gone forever.

On the other hand, she’s getting this adorable replacement wallet. Nothing like shopping to cheer a girl up.

And just when I’d pretty much lost all faith in both human- and dog-nature, my friend Charlie returned from a trip to Venice with an adorable handbag for my collection and two shotglasses (Venetian glass!). He knows me too well. Cheered me right up, shallow Suzy that I am.