Lately I’ve been leaning way too much towards punditry in what I write here. On the one hand it is hard to see what is happening here in this country and not say something about it but on the other hand I would like to write something that goes beyond what is passing for news today. The word for newspaper in Greek is ephemeritha; today’s ephemeral news is tomorrow's bird cage liner or whatever the digital news equivalent of that would be. That should be the motto of pundit blogs: Read it today because tomorrow you can’t even use it to clean up bird poop.
Over this past weekend I took care of the adorable pit bull puppy I wrote about last week. She is three months old and just about the friendliest dog I have ever been around. Her name is Francis. Because I live in a building that doesn’t allow dogs, I had to sneak her in and out, so I started calling her Anne Franck. I am house-training her so that meant taking her in and out about twenty times a day.
To properly house-train a dog you have to get into a synchronized rhythm: either the dog gets into your routine or vice versa. I opted to get into three-month-old-puppy rhythm which can be broken down hourly like this: 3 hours walking, 30 minutes peeing, 15 minutes pooping, 15 minutes chewing on something you shouldn’t chew on, 4 hours relaxing, 17 hours sleeping. From Friday afternoon until Sunday afternoon this was my exciting life. Not exactly the mother lode for a creative writer.
During one long stretch on the couch Saturday afternoon I read this week’s New Yorker cover to cover while Francis appeared to be in some sort of comatose state complete with snoring. That was the relatively ambitious part of my weekend. I farted around playing some Chopin mazurkas and waltzes on the piano that I once played fairly well until inattention wiped them from my repertoire. And then I would sleep, get up, take a nap, and then go back to bed. I am generally the world’s worst sleeper, getting by on 4-5 hours a night if I’m lucky. I was both appalled and proud of my sleeping performance this weekend. I didn’t ride a bike for two days and at my current level of fitness I could feel the atrophy in my legs. I imagine this is what withdrawal must feel like (I have never denied myself my vices so I can only imagine).
It’s Monday morning, the dog is gone, and I’m off to punish my legs and red-line my heart rate monitor. I realize this past weekend doesn’t make the best fodder for someone looking for a writing subject but at least I spared you my narrow-minded, ill-informed liberal political views--at least for today.
WOLRD'S CUTEST PUPPY
