This enforced rest for Chet is killing both of us. He's bored to tears. I'm feeling blobby. I miss our power walks so much. Thank goodness it's raining and yuckky outside, so I don't have to sneak out on him. He got up and went outside, then slept this morning until 3:30 in the afternoon, got up to eat, played for a few hours, and now he's working on a Nylabone. He'll be ready to go to bed again at 10. If this doesn't fix his wanky knee, nothing will. Because we are giving a new definition to REST.
It'll be two weeks on Wednesday that we've been without our hikes. And then I have a week of leash walking him. There have been occasional lapses, like when he sees a bunneh or a durr and streaks out the door before anyone can stop him, but overall I'd say he's gotten about 1/10th of the exercise he normally gets, and I expect he's put on some weight, because his appetite seems to have increased. Hey, me too. I think I have pica. If I had to write down everything I eat every day I'd be jotting notes all day.
Boston terrier 'tocks. I'm hooked on Cute Overload, and have picked up some of their lingo. (Muzzlepuffs, 'tocks and the like). If you haven't tried it, and you think Chet's cute, look out. It's pretty cat-heavy, and also weighted toward hamsters, but there are lots of puppies, a few Bostons, and baby moose, which look like a tangle of furry coat hangers that someone put together in the dark. The kids and I like to start our day cuddling together in bed with Baker, looking at Cute Overload on the laptop. I have a feeling the proprietor makes a living (and probably a pretty good one) off her blog sponsors. Hmmmmmmm. There's an idea.
I'm preparing a talk about Letters from Eden for my "book tour," and I've gone through something like 13K images in my groaning iPhoto library finding just the right ones for the talk. It's really fun, but probably the most time-consuming thing a person can do. I tell you, it's something, to relive 2006 in photos. I have this giant lump in my throat most of the time as I see spring and summer flying by, Liam smelling Easter lilacs and the bleeding heart blooming, fading and dying and chalk drawings washing off in a warm summmer rain and Phoebe whacking wiffleballs and Bill staring out over a summer meadow and Avis and Luther growing up and flying away (or not)...and then I find Chet, trying to hide behind a little bouquet of zinnas and goldenrod, soaking up some sun in a forbidden spot. He thinks I don't know he does this.
A person who gnaws on her dog's muzzlepuffs probably isn't going to worry too much about the hygeinic consequences of having him lounge on the kitchen table. Chet knows this too. But Bill, who still retains a shred of propriety where Chet's concerned, makes him get down.
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