I see grey clouds walking along the crests of the hills to the west. These are the scouts for the Pacific storm headed our way. John is mowing the lawn hurriedly, and then I will go forth with my Grass Hog weed whacker and whack down the worst of the jungle growing around my roses and the edges of the lawn. If we don't do this now we'll have to wait another week and the state of the yard will go from bushy to jungle. I spent some time pulling weeds around my roses and got some very ugly scratches on my upper arms from the ungrateful La France. Once my chores are done I'll cull the current crop of daffodils and bring them in to make a spring bouquet which I can meditate on while it rains and rains.
No homework this weekend, I got it done in class Wednesday and turned in. No social events at all. Nothing to do but play with the Sims, plot my time travel agent romance, do some desultory chores, and ponder how to get Jasper to stop eating feces.
He's incorrigible. We make him wear a soft muzzle on walks, which he hates but accepts, but this doesn't stop him from trying to get at foul material anyway. We're always having to wash his muzzle, it's so gross. And we can't leave the door to our bedroom open or he's in there sticking his head in the cat box and eating revolting things with chemically treated gravel clinging to it. It's terribly frustrating. We're faithful about closing off the doorway with a baby gate most of the time but if I take it down while I'm at home we have to keep our eye on him. It just takes five minutes of letting our guard down and ick.
The good news is since we got a huge sheet of plastic and covered the area by the front door and along the bookshelves, then put down an enormous doormat-type thing over it to keep it in place and guard the rug, Natasha has completely stopped pissing inappropriately. Four years of that has just stopped. I still don't understand, but I'm grateful.
Of course, our house looks like hell now with all that plastic covering up a fourth of the living room and slipcovers on everything. I've just discovered we can't even leave the sofa uncovered as Jasper gets on it whenever he thinks we aren't looking, or when in fact we aren't looking such as during the work day and at night. It's getting shredded from dog toenails even with a large bedspread thrown over it. I'm going to have to buy a thick slipcover for it which breaks my heart: I chose it for the lovely caramel gold color with the pretty texture. I don't want my entire room to have to be covered up. Break out the violins, because I have no choice if I want to preserve my furniture. Jasper is a stubborn little dog who will not be trained out of his bad habits. He's used to being sneaky. He cannot be trusted on nice furniture or alone with a cat box even when we're nearby.
And as we discovered last month he is perfectly willing to get up on the sofabed with a guest sleeping over. Alan Rosenthal turned over in the night and found Jasper happily curled up on the other half of the bed. Oy.
Still, our Jasper is a nice dog. He has good manners on walks when meeting people or dogs. He has a very good relationship with the cats now, avoiding Natasha and allowing Keiko to rub up against him unless he's sleeping (in which case he simply growls a warning without moving an inch). He adores John and thinks I'm nice in spite of being the disciplinarian of the family. He never gets hysterical to see me when we come home; all his attention is directed at John. However, he spends time with me at my feet and comes to have his head rubbed so I know he's fond of me.
Am I fond of him? Yes. Do I love him? No. Is he a pain? Yes. Would I give him back? No. He has his charms as well as his bad behavior, and besides, he's seven years old. We'll take him on his own terms, and reinforce what we expect of him, and indulge him in other ways. The house is much, much noiser and busier with the addition of this one dog. It's really amazing.
It's been 50 weeks since Dixie died. I'm still not over it. But I'm glad we have a new dog.
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