First Day Off
As Herr Robson asked me the other day when I went to see him sell drinks at my old school (I go there often to walk my kid sister home), What does one plus one equal? Well, in my dog’s case, it equals eight. One adult male plus one adult female equals the preceding two and six puppies. They were born on Sunday--I managed somehow to forget them while bitching about my job--and are now like any other young species in that they are constantly squirming and squealing.
A large box has been commissioned and lined with newspaper for them, but I think it too small. The puppies are all whining whenever the mother rolls over and inadvertently squishes one or more, which happens about every fifteen minutes. They’re all very cute, and look more like German Shepherds than their mother, but I cannot as yet differentiate more than two of them; the one with white markings on its neck, and the one with a pink nose. The rest are an amalgamation of black, brown, and dark brown. (Being colour-blind, I have this on authority from my siblings.)
So far several have been reserved by neighbours and friends who want puppies; we’re keeping two (male) ones. In fact I might have proof that the Y chromosome is stronger than the X, because five of the six puppies are male. The only females are the mother and one other, as yet indistinguishable. No fear now of getting more puppies, especially as we plan to give the female away and spay the mother as soon as possible, when the puppies are weaned.
Today is my first off day. I have spent it so far in finishing reading ‘Bleak House’ by Dickens. Yes, in spite of my speed-reading skills, I have not yet finished reading all the books I got from Fuzhou Road. It’s a pity, but that’s life. I don’t really plan to finish them all, either. I've tried a little Poe, but his style is so hopelessly confounded and haphazard that I cannot understand him. Shakespeare is much more interesting; I can understand him, and what’s more I find his wit surprisingly sharp. Amazing how funny a joke can be even with thee’s and thou’s all over it.
And even better--note this, charitable classmate--Dickens predicted, on page 714 of Bleak House, the name of a famous singer. Michael Jackson is the false name chosen by a detective during a case! Of all people--Michael Jackson! I showed it to my sister, but she didn’t quite get why I should think it so funny that a novel written decades ago should contain the name of an American singer. Oh well, my sense of humour is a weird one and hard to understand.
I just got off a phone call from the Pig. (Yes, I do boil telephone porridge occasionally, but only when someone else is phoning me. The phone bill is big enough as it is without me enlarging it still further.) I do believe that for all his boasting about his muscular development, the Pig is little more than a rich wimp.
I mean--seriously, when I called him up to go swimming, he declined saying that he didn’t know how to swim. Very well; neither can I. We’ll just go together. He has no transport back? He is rich; he can take a bus, which will cost but little. Buses are rare in the twilight hours? He can leave before the twilight hours, or he can ask his mother for transport, or he can drive. He has no money; his allowance is zero. So is mine; that’s why I work. He can do the same. He never works because it’s the holidays. Well! Holidays can be used for something other than staring at a ceiling. Why not meet up? He is tired. So? I work, lifting heavy loads all week; I am tired too. In any case I never said that I wanted to work out. And then he says that he must ask his friend before going.
Definitely rich wimp material. And he is rich, despite all his efforts to deny it and get the spotlight on me by suggesting that I am richer. And obviously he is a wimp--his strength of determination appears to be absolute zero. I almost think that if he were ever to marry, his bride would have to drag him every inch of the way up the aisle. All 70++ kilos of his big fat body. I hope he marries an Amazon, or she’ll never make it.
In any case, I’m spending my first off day alone at home, reading. (When I told the Pig, he immediately began yawning. As if his TV marathons were any more interesting...) And really, it’s as restful as I could hope for. It’s pretty good, really. Almost what an ideal holiday for me could be: a simple breakfast, some reading, lunch, reading, dinner, reading, sleep. And why not? TV isn’t any better. Anyway, I’ve got to get back to my book. Dickens’ books have awful plots, and I do mean awful. (I’m using the word in its archaic sense: awe-ful, as in awesome. Apparently this word got twisted around through widespread sarcasm. Something like how the phrase ‘Yeah, right’ came to be.)
A large box has been commissioned and lined with newspaper for them, but I think it too small. The puppies are all whining whenever the mother rolls over and inadvertently squishes one or more, which happens about every fifteen minutes. They’re all very cute, and look more like German Shepherds than their mother, but I cannot as yet differentiate more than two of them; the one with white markings on its neck, and the one with a pink nose. The rest are an amalgamation of black, brown, and dark brown. (Being colour-blind, I have this on authority from my siblings.)
So far several have been reserved by neighbours and friends who want puppies; we’re keeping two (male) ones. In fact I might have proof that the Y chromosome is stronger than the X, because five of the six puppies are male. The only females are the mother and one other, as yet indistinguishable. No fear now of getting more puppies, especially as we plan to give the female away and spay the mother as soon as possible, when the puppies are weaned.
Today is my first off day. I have spent it so far in finishing reading ‘Bleak House’ by Dickens. Yes, in spite of my speed-reading skills, I have not yet finished reading all the books I got from Fuzhou Road. It’s a pity, but that’s life. I don’t really plan to finish them all, either. I've tried a little Poe, but his style is so hopelessly confounded and haphazard that I cannot understand him. Shakespeare is much more interesting; I can understand him, and what’s more I find his wit surprisingly sharp. Amazing how funny a joke can be even with thee’s and thou’s all over it.
And even better--note this, charitable classmate--Dickens predicted, on page 714 of Bleak House, the name of a famous singer. Michael Jackson is the false name chosen by a detective during a case! Of all people--Michael Jackson! I showed it to my sister, but she didn’t quite get why I should think it so funny that a novel written decades ago should contain the name of an American singer. Oh well, my sense of humour is a weird one and hard to understand.
I just got off a phone call from the Pig. (Yes, I do boil telephone porridge occasionally, but only when someone else is phoning me. The phone bill is big enough as it is without me enlarging it still further.) I do believe that for all his boasting about his muscular development, the Pig is little more than a rich wimp.
I mean--seriously, when I called him up to go swimming, he declined saying that he didn’t know how to swim. Very well; neither can I. We’ll just go together. He has no transport back? He is rich; he can take a bus, which will cost but little. Buses are rare in the twilight hours? He can leave before the twilight hours, or he can ask his mother for transport, or he can drive. He has no money; his allowance is zero. So is mine; that’s why I work. He can do the same. He never works because it’s the holidays. Well! Holidays can be used for something other than staring at a ceiling. Why not meet up? He is tired. So? I work, lifting heavy loads all week; I am tired too. In any case I never said that I wanted to work out. And then he says that he must ask his friend before going.
Definitely rich wimp material. And he is rich, despite all his efforts to deny it and get the spotlight on me by suggesting that I am richer. And obviously he is a wimp--his strength of determination appears to be absolute zero. I almost think that if he were ever to marry, his bride would have to drag him every inch of the way up the aisle. All 70++ kilos of his big fat body. I hope he marries an Amazon, or she’ll never make it.
In any case, I’m spending my first off day alone at home, reading. (When I told the Pig, he immediately began yawning. As if his TV marathons were any more interesting...) And really, it’s as restful as I could hope for. It’s pretty good, really. Almost what an ideal holiday for me could be: a simple breakfast, some reading, lunch, reading, dinner, reading, sleep. And why not? TV isn’t any better. Anyway, I’ve got to get back to my book. Dickens’ books have awful plots, and I do mean awful. (I’m using the word in its archaic sense: awe-ful, as in awesome. Apparently this word got twisted around through widespread sarcasm. Something like how the phrase ‘Yeah, right’ came to be.)
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