Baby Dog's First Art Opening
Baby Dog went to her first art opening tonight. Mama Dog thought it would be politic to put in an appearance at the first gala related to her new job, so though the timing was inconvenient, we did our best to make it work. I raced out of the office as soon as I could, but there wasn’t going to be time for me to walk the dog before we went out again. Heroically, Mama Dog undertook that chore before I got home, walking Doggy Dog while simultaneously pushing Baby Dog along in the stroller. This is not an easy thing to do, Doggy Dog being a large and wilful animal. At one point Doggy Dog caught sight of a cat and lunged at it. Baby Dog, noticing the cat, said “Mao!” “Yes, Doggy Dog’s trying to eat the Mao,” Mama Dog agreed.
We headed out shortly after I got home and changed. I said I thought it was the first time that Baby Dog had ever seen me in a suit, but then remembered I wore one to the Mircat’s wedding. Probably there’s been another suitworthy event or two since Baby Dog was born, but they don’t spring immediately to mind. It was cold-for-California* out, so Mama Dog bundled the little girl up in some sort of woollen body armour that she said made her look like Violet Beauregarde all swoled** up like a blueberry. She was so warm and cozy in this garment that she almost fell asleep in the stroller on the way to the gallery. I picked her up and carried her the last block or so to make sure she actually got to experience her very first art opening.
We didn’t stay long at the gallery, just enough for Mama Dog to hobnob with her orkers and make her presence known. Baby Dog seemed to enjoy looking at the art, particularly when we pointed out that there were monkeys in the background of one painting. “Ee ee ee,” she observed enthusiastically. Not a bad lead for a review, really. Later, she pointed at some of the exhibits in the lower level of the gallery and said with great confidence first “Moo!” then “Neigh!” We went downstairs and I tried dutifully to locate the cows and horses she thought she had seen, but to no avail. I found much post-modern irony but no livestock.
Mama Dog and I were both quite esurient*** by then, so we curtailed our hobnobbing activities and sallied forth to infiltrate some place of purveyance where we could negotiate the vending of some cheesy (or cheese-free) comestibles. Unfortunately, it was in this phase of the operation that things broke down somewhat. We had planned to go out, see the opening briefly, and then eat somewhere, but we had never discussed where that somewhere might be, and we were both too hungry to figure it out. At length, we agreed on Cactus Taqueria, so we headed down College in that direction. Before we got there, Mama Dog spotted a parking space across the street from Barclay’s, and she grabbed it. I looked askance at Barclay’s. “Do you think they even have high chairs?” I asked. Mama Dog shrugged. “It’s Rockridge. Everyplace caters to babies.” “Yeah, but it’s a bar.” “No, it’s just a pub.” Okeydoke. It turns out they did have highchairs. They even had a kids place-mat and crayons. What they didn’t have was any table other than the one by the door, squeezed next to a table full of red-faced lager louts. Baby Dog, close to sleep walking to the gallery, was now wide awake and wired. She squealed and shrieked. The louts looked at us like we were making more noise than they were. Nothing like a restless child to make you blaze through a restaurant meal in record time. With no food for her to eat, it was difficult to keep Baby Dog occupied. She read Bus Stops a few times, but grew bored with that. I finally decided we’d have to take turns eating. There was a woman at the table outside our window with a very friendly-looking puppy, so I took Baby Dog outside to be introduced.
After eating, we drove around until Baby Dog was asleep. But of course she had to be changed before bed and that meant prying her out of the Violet Beauregarde getup. There was no way to do it without waking her up again. I rocked her back to her third sleep of the night. This one took. Big night for Baby Dog.
___________________
*In other words, autumnally mild.
**paul, yes, I know that’s not really a word.
***Eee, I were all ‘ungry, like.
We headed out shortly after I got home and changed. I said I thought it was the first time that Baby Dog had ever seen me in a suit, but then remembered I wore one to the Mircat’s wedding. Probably there’s been another suitworthy event or two since Baby Dog was born, but they don’t spring immediately to mind. It was cold-for-California* out, so Mama Dog bundled the little girl up in some sort of woollen body armour that she said made her look like Violet Beauregarde all swoled** up like a blueberry. She was so warm and cozy in this garment that she almost fell asleep in the stroller on the way to the gallery. I picked her up and carried her the last block or so to make sure she actually got to experience her very first art opening.
We didn’t stay long at the gallery, just enough for Mama Dog to hobnob with her orkers and make her presence known. Baby Dog seemed to enjoy looking at the art, particularly when we pointed out that there were monkeys in the background of one painting. “Ee ee ee,” she observed enthusiastically. Not a bad lead for a review, really. Later, she pointed at some of the exhibits in the lower level of the gallery and said with great confidence first “Moo!” then “Neigh!” We went downstairs and I tried dutifully to locate the cows and horses she thought she had seen, but to no avail. I found much post-modern irony but no livestock.
Mama Dog and I were both quite esurient*** by then, so we curtailed our hobnobbing activities and sallied forth to infiltrate some place of purveyance where we could negotiate the vending of some cheesy (or cheese-free) comestibles. Unfortunately, it was in this phase of the operation that things broke down somewhat. We had planned to go out, see the opening briefly, and then eat somewhere, but we had never discussed where that somewhere might be, and we were both too hungry to figure it out. At length, we agreed on Cactus Taqueria, so we headed down College in that direction. Before we got there, Mama Dog spotted a parking space across the street from Barclay’s, and she grabbed it. I looked askance at Barclay’s. “Do you think they even have high chairs?” I asked. Mama Dog shrugged. “It’s Rockridge. Everyplace caters to babies.” “Yeah, but it’s a bar.” “No, it’s just a pub.” Okeydoke. It turns out they did have highchairs. They even had a kids place-mat and crayons. What they didn’t have was any table other than the one by the door, squeezed next to a table full of red-faced lager louts. Baby Dog, close to sleep walking to the gallery, was now wide awake and wired. She squealed and shrieked. The louts looked at us like we were making more noise than they were. Nothing like a restless child to make you blaze through a restaurant meal in record time. With no food for her to eat, it was difficult to keep Baby Dog occupied. She read Bus Stops a few times, but grew bored with that. I finally decided we’d have to take turns eating. There was a woman at the table outside our window with a very friendly-looking puppy, so I took Baby Dog outside to be introduced.
After eating, we drove around until Baby Dog was asleep. But of course she had to be changed before bed and that meant prying her out of the Violet Beauregarde getup. There was no way to do it without waking her up again. I rocked her back to her third sleep of the night. This one took. Big night for Baby Dog.
___________________
*In other words, autumnally mild.
**paul, yes, I know that’s not really a word.
***Eee, I were all ‘ungry, like.
posted by PapaDogDuvalier | 11:28 PM
3 Comments:
We have, on more than one occasion, let our sons sleep in whatever they fall asleep in. Then again, there have been times that I have sat with sleepy boys on my lap and undressed and redressed them for bed while they were in their semi-awake/groggy state.
Sounds like a fantastic evening for Baby Dog and the rest of the canines!
Children do not belong in bars. It's an insult to the alcoholics, so regrettably I think the lager louts were correct in their dismay. You were a drunkard in a past life, you should know that.
Mama Dog must add that the meal at Barclay's might have been one of the worst she'd ever had in her lifetime: questionable BBQ pork slabs slathered w/ some undecipherable cheese product and a salad endolloped with some highly viscous shite that they were calling "vinaigrette." I ate the food out of sheer ravenousness, but had to cap off my meal w/ a bowl of Kellogg's sugar smacks to get that awful taste out of my mouth. Awful restaurant, that Barclay's!
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