Papa Dog's Blog

Another Year, Another Post

It seems I skipped all of 2013 here. Obviously, I'm a lapsed blogger. I notice I stopped blogging for real right around the time that Baby Dog started reading. Coincidence? Yes. What happened was, too many other things were starting to demand my time, notably my writing time, and when it came time to make a choice, it was the blogging that had to go. Then along came Facebook, and that became me default place for small bursts of extemporaneous text. I still can't seem to give this page up, though. Lots of memories here.

Ruminations on the Natural World

Just started reading Don DeLillo's Point Omega, which starts off with a bit about viewing cinema at a radically slowed pace (Psycho slowed down to be viewed over 24 hours), and then moves to what looks like an awful lot of thoughts on desert landscapes. It got me thinking about my own indifferent relationship with nature and I decided I mark the likelihood of my one day taking an interest in the natural world as "possible, but unlikely."

It's Been More than a Year Since I Last Posted?

Does anybody read blogs anymore?

Family Vacation

We had a fine three-day stay at Long Valley Ranch, near Ukiah. Baby Dog was taken more than anything else by the presence of a hammock strung between two trees, and she spent a good deal of each day lying in it, swinging around, and reading her books. Mama Dog took some perverse enjoyment in hiking in 90 degree weather. I took great pleasure in napping most of the days away. But the one who got the most out of the trip, paws down, was Girlie Dog. She chased a deer, caught a fish in the pond (and then rolled in it until she was absolutely disgusting), and chased small prey through the brush, bounding on her hind paws like a kangaroo. It was a much-needed rest for us all and we can't wait to make our next trip there.

An Update

Things are going well, thanks. Baby Dog is so not a baby anymore. She's six and a half and is doing very well in Grade 1. Doggy Dog passed away in May of 2009, a very sudden deterioration sparked on by the usual big-dog hip problems. We had a mourning period of about eight months and then adopted Girlie Dog, a husky-shepherd mix who was then 2 years old and has been quite a handful compared to our sedate old dog. She gets along splendidly with Baby Dog, though, which is one thing we always felt we were missing out on with Doggy Dog. Girlie Dog consents equably to being hugged, tugged, lain on, and rolled on.

More Coming

I suppose I should start updating this thing again sometime.

April Wine in the Hall

Well it's finally happened. April Wine is being inducted into the Canadian Music Hall of Fame. Thanks to you, the readers of this Faversham. It's been a long road, but thanks to your letters and e-mails CARAS finally relented and put April Wine in the hall. So give yourselves a round of applause.

Be sure to watch the Junos on CTV on Sunday, April 18th to see the induction ceremony. Keep on rockin'.

So 2006.

According to an article in the Wall Street Journal today, blogging is "so 2006." Huh. Scrolling down this page, I find that was the year I stopped blogging regularly. How about that.

And in other news...

...Kristine is surprised to see a new post here.

Much Better, America

Four years ago, there was a black armband on the faversham. Not today.

Your Official Guide to Levels of Coldness, As Compiled By an Actual Canadian

65º F (18.333º C) and up - Hot
55º F (12.778º C) - Warmish
45º F (7.222º C) - A Little Cool
40º F (4.444º C) - A Tad Chilly
32º F (0º c) - Seems Like It Could Get Nippy Soon
20º F (-6.667º C) - Guess I'll Wear My Toque
0º F (-17.778º C) - Cold
-20º F (-28.889º C) - Really Cold
-40º F (-40º C) - Really Fucking Cold (must maintain temperature for at least two days straight for classification to be certified)

An Email I Just Sent to Thomasandfriends Period Commercial

Dear Thomas and Friends:

My almost-four-year-old daughter is a great enthusiast of the Thomas series and enjoys many of the games and activities on the Thomasandfriends web site. Today we were reading the various character gallery entries in the "Engines" section of the site, and I found a couple of errors that I thought should be brought to your attention. Both are in the entry for Lady Hatt.

First, it refers to Lady Hatt as a "kind and gentile woman." While I'm sure that description is accurate in all its particulars, I have a strong hunch it was supposed to read "kind and gentle woman."

Second, it says that Lady Hatt is wont to scold the engines if they behave properly. If that is true, it must be very confusing for the engines and a great hindrance to their moral development. Surely the gentle gentile lady only scolds them if they behave improperly.

Thank you for providing countless hours of learning and entertainment for my child and my thanks to your webmaster for inadvertently providing me with a good laugh.

Best regards,

Papa Dog

Concrete and Barbed Wahr

So Baby Dog has two new musical obsessions. One is Puff the Magic Dragon, which she sings and discusses from first thing in the morning until last thing at night. The other is Lucinda Williams' album, Car Wheels on a Gravel Road, to which she was introduced by Mama Dog. Today, Mama Dog made Baby Dog a binder filled with the printed lyrics to all the songs, each song encased in a heavy-duty plastic sheet protector, ready for the tough punishment that surely lies in its future. I was a little disconcerted when I saw Baby Dog reading out the words to "Metal Firecracker," which includes the line "You wanted to undress me." I mentioned that to Mama Dog, who replied, "She'll just think it means Lucinda was getting ready for a bath." Well, okay.

Anyway, among Baby Dog's favourite Lucinda songs is "Concrete and Barbed Wire." Tonight, Mama Dog made a point of asking Baby Dog to say, for my benefit, the name of that song. Our little girl faithfully pronounces it just the way Lucinda does, in her Louisiana drawl. "Concrete and Barbed Wahr."

Baby Dog Reads

Baby Dog's been reading her books out loud since she was less than 18 months old. It ceased to be a novelty long ago. "Yeah," I'd say to people, "she reads them out loud, but it's not really reading. She just has them all memorised."

Several months ago I noticed that she was recognising specific words. She started out reading signs. Two of the first words she knew how to spell were "no" and "parking." Again, it wasn't really reading - she had memorised particular sets of letters and recognised them in different contexts. "It's pre-reading," I'd say.

Well, a couple of weeks ago, the last shoe finally dropped. I finally noticed that she could always find on the page the word I was reading in one of her Thomas books. I decided to do some experiments. I pointed random words out to her in different books, without reading the page aloud myself. Invariably, she knew what the word was. Then I wrote some random words on a piece of paper - ones I knew she was familiar with. Again, 100 percent. Today, I wrote on a piece of paper the phrase "That dog is in the house with a big cat." She read it out without hesitation. I went on Amazon and printed a page from an Eric Carle book she's never seen before. It read "So the mouse ran on. 'Do you want to be my friend?'" She stumbled minutely on "mouse," but sounded out the consonants and extrapolated the word correctly.

So, it's official. Three years and four months. Baby Dog can read.

How Cretins Boogie

Not content to merely do violence to the Constitution, America's standing in the world, and the rights of our own citizenship, the Bush Administration has also declared a War on Rhythm. They may want to come up with a better name, so as not to confuse those wonks working on abstinence education policy. But what else can you call a spectacle like this:

It's Laura Bush who really makes you cringe, looking even whiter and stiffer than her husband. Actually, if it weren't for his atrocious term of office, I'd have no issue with Bush in this one. Here, more than most places, his true personality comes out, in that he dances like a man who did a lot of blow and a lot of booze, and, left to his own devices, would be hanging out on his farm in cutoffs and a t-shirt smoking a blunt and listening to CCR. He seems like a guy who'd probably be fun to hang out with if he weren't president and one were interested in a weekend of booze, blow, bullshit conversation, and skanky broads.

But by way of contrast, it's departing supervillain Karl Rove who, characteristically, brings the most destructive gusto to the administration's new war. Scroll to 5:45 in, or 2:45 from the end to witness the new innovation in shock and awe.

That spectacle was so ghastly, so utterly horrifying, that I had to watch it in two sittings, even though there is only two minutes of content.

A friend summed it up best in an email:

"In the '60s (I think)
Norman Mailer (I think)
said about one of Andy Warhol's early films with Edie Sedgewick (I think)
"A hundred years from now, people will look at this and say,
'This is what it was like before the plague came."
That's what I thought of as I watched Rove mincing and mugging--essentially doing a Minstrel Show.
Great googely goo!"

A Brief Encapsulation of What's Wrong With America

Two-thirds of the front page of today's SF Chronicle is given over to an obit to some hockeyball guy I've never heard of and can't believe anybody else has either. In a tiny box below the fold is the headline about the passing of Ingmar Bergman. Bergman's obit got most of the front of the Datebook, granted, but still--what kind of world is it when the death of some random jock wrangler is considered that much more important than the passing of one of the absolute titans of 20th century cinema?

Rock Glasses

Back in the old millennium, when I was still a drinking man, I had a policy. Anytime a bar charged an outrageous amount for a cocktail, I would assume that the glass was included in the price. I think my cut-off point was five dollars… that seems a perfectly reasonable price now, but it struck me as exorbitant then. I gradually accumulated a diverse collection of rock glasses and, in one memorable incident, a martini glass from the New Orleans Room at the Fairmont Hotel. That last I still feel a little guilty about – you really expect a martini to be overpriced – but it seemed, for complicated reasons, like the thing to do at the time.

Recently, Baby Dog finally graduated from sippy cups. Mama Dog bought a passel of little plastic tumblers from the Internets, but they proved to be so lightweight that they were extra prone to spilling. Gradually, we settled into a routine wherein Baby Dog gets her water in the plastic tumblers but her milk in a small, bottom-heavy glass. It was only this morning that it occurred to me that all the small, bottom-heavy glasses are in fact rock glasses I purloined from bars years ago. You probably hate as much as I do stories whose only point is “isn’t life funny?” but hey – isn’t life funny? It sure never would have occurred to me back then that I was stealing milk glasses for my daughter.

Baby Dog's Third

Chuck meant it as a joke (I presume) after last June's post, "Baby Dog's Second," that I shouldn't blog again until I wrote "Baby Dog's Third." Regardless, I screwed that pooch - there have been five scattered posts between then and now. I'd give an account of Baby Dog's big day but Mama Dog already did that elsewhere and, well, the stuff that's kept me from blogging for nigh on two years hasn't exactly let up and I'm now thoroughly out of the habit. So please, join Charles in looking forward to my next post: Baby Dog's Fourth!

In the Neighbourhood

One of Baby Dog’s current night time songs is “In the Neighbourhood,” by Tom Waits. If you don’t know it, it goes:

Well, the eggs chase the bacon round the fryin' pan
and the whining dog pigeons by the steeple bell rope
and the dogs tipped the garbage pails over last night
and there's always construction work bothering you
In the neighbourhood
In the neighbourhood
In the neighbourhood

Friday's the funeral and Saturday's the bride
Sey's got a pistol on the register side
and the goddamn delivery trucks they make too much noise
and we don't get our butter delivered no more
In the neighbourhood
In the neighbourhood
In the neighbourhood

Well big Mambo's kicking his old grey hound
and the kids can't get ice cream 'cause the market burned down
and the newspaper sleeping bags blow down the lane
and the goddamn flatbed's got me pinned in again
In the neighbourhood
In the neighbourhood
In the neighbourhood

There's a couple Filipino girl's giggling by the church
and the window is busted and the landlord ain't home
and Butch joined the army yea that's where he's been
and the jackhammer's digging up the sidewalks again
In the neighbourhood
In the neighbourhood
In the neighbourhood

The thing that’s funny about this is that back when Mama Dog and I were first together, I had this tradition of playing that song just before I left for work every day. I was pretending it was the theme song of my sitcom or something, and as I went out to walk through my neighbourhood on the way to BART, Tom would be growling along in accompaniment. Or something like that. Anyway, like most of my silly obsessions it fell by the wayside after a while, but Mama Dog sure must feel like something’s come around again every time she hears me singing Baby Dog to sleep.

Also, in full disclosure – when I sing the song to Baby Dog, I edit three things. I change “goddamn” to a weaselly “gosh-darn,” just because I don’t want her volunteering opinions about the goddamn delivery trucks at daycare. Secondly, I change “Filipino girls” to “Filipina girls,” because, you know, they’re girls. And lastly, I say “we don’t get our butter delivered anymore,” because I just can’t bear the thought of her employing double negatives at such a tender age.

VAMFW

I think I’ve written before of this, but I’m too lazy to look it up just now – we have a habit in our little family of adding the modifier “-ass muh’fuh’n” to perfectly innocent phrases. Like, “Doggy Dog’s a good-ass muh’fuh’n dog.” Or “Merry-ass muh’fuh’n Christmas.” For me, this goes back to the day years ago when some guy on the street saluted Ambrose’s car as a “Raw-ass muh’fuh’n Cutlass.” I’m not sure what Mama Dog’s history with it is.

Anyway, I’ve long been in the habit of answering “Very-ass muh’fuh’n well” when asked to complete some ordinary household task. “Would you please get me a fork?” Mama Dog would ask. “Very-ass muh’fuh’n well,” I’d reply.

When Baby Dog began to acquire language and we started to clean up our act verbally, I was loath to lose such a piquant phrase from my vocabulary. Being a bright-eyed clever little fellow, what I did was truncate it to an acronym. VAMFW. Only I’d pronounce the acronym phonetically. “Could you pour Baby Dog’s bath?” Mama Dog would ask. “VAM-fwuh!” I would reply, con gusto.

Eventually, the inevitable happened; Baby Dog repeated “VAM-fwuh!” and laughed loudly. She had no idea what it meant, but she finds many of Daddy’s funny little words worth repeating and laughing at.

The other night, Mama Dog asked me to do something, and I said “VAM-fwuh!” Baby Dog echoed me, with laughter. Mama Dog asked her, “Baby Dog, what does ‘vam-fwuh’ mean?” Baby Dog pondered for a moment and answered, with gravity, “Okay.”

How about that? She can translate nonsense from context.

The Irish Rovie

Baby Dog’s new favourite song (as of the last couple weeks) is The Irish Rover. That’s one I’ve sung to her now and again since she was very very small, but which she never seemed to latch onto until now. When Baby Dog latches on to a song, though, she latches firmly. This song is now required every time I put her down for bedtime or naptime. It figures on the Napster playlist at every meal (the version she knows is the one by The Pogues and The Dubliners). It’s part of every car trip and every neighbourhood walk. For those who don’t know the song, it’s a very spirited Irish sing-a-long, a shaggy dog story about the strange voyage of a strange ship with a strange crew and a stranger cargo. It’s hardly a lullaby, but that’s Baby Dog for you.

The reason I’m moved to post about it now is this: since the song’s renaissance in her playlist, she’s enjoyed taking part in the singing. Each verse ends with the phrase “The Irish Rover!” I’ll pause at that part, and she’ll sing it out – pronouncing it “The Irish Rovie,” true, but that’s the way her ares sound now. Anyway, at bedtime last night, Baby Dog sang along with me for the entire song – all five verses. I knew she could fill in blanks if I paused in the song, but I never realised she had the whole thing memorized. And it’s no simple stuff, either. Check out the lyrics:

On the Fourth of July, 1806
We set sail from the sweet cove of Cork
We were sailing away with a cargo of bricks
For the Grand City Hall in New York
'Twas a wonderful craft
She was rigged fore and aft
And oh, how the wild wind drove her
She stood several blasts
She had twenty seven masts
And they called her The Irish Rover

We had one million bags of the best Sligo rags
We had two million barrels of stone
We had three million sides of old blind horses hides
We had four million barrels of bones
We had five million hogs
And six million dogs
Seven million barrels of porter
We had eight million bails of old nanny-goats' tails
In the hold of the Irish Rover

There was awl Mickey Coote
Who played hard on his flute
When the ladies lined up for a set
He was tootin' with skill
For each sparkling quadrille
Though the dancers were fluther'd and bet
With his smart witty talk
He was cock of the walk
And he rolled the dames under and over
They all knew at a glance
When he took up his stance
That he sailed in The Irish Rover

There was Barney McGee
From the banks of the Lee
There was Hogan from County Tyrone
There was Johnny McGurk
Who was scared stiff of work
And a man from Westmeath called Malone
There was Slugger O'Toole
Who was drunk as a rule
And Fighting Bill Treacy from Dover
And your man, Mick MacCann
From the banks of the Bann
Was the skipper of the Irish Rover

We had sailed seven years
When the measles broke out
And the ship lost its way in the fog
And that whale of a crew
Was reduced down to two
Just myself and the Captain's old dog
Then the ship struck a rock
Oh Lord! what a shock
The bulkhead was turned right over
Turned nine times around
And the poor old dog was drowned
And the last of The Irish Rover

I’m compelled to point out in the spirit of full disclosure that Baby Dog’s renderings of many of these lines are best classed as approximate, but she’s for the most part very close. It’s no doubt a handicap that practically the only words in the whole thing that have a concrete meaning for her are “dog,” “goat,” and “horse” (for all of which she supplies appropriate sound effects when I sing the song otherwise unaccompanied). And besides – I haven’t any more clue than she does what “fluther’d and bet” means, and she pronounces it at least as well as I do.

Also:

The other day, she announced thoughtfully (and without discernable precedent in the conversation), “I should be a bus driver.” We take this to be her first announced career aspiration.

No, You’re Not Seeing Things: This Is a New Post

Charles has been in town off and on this past month. When he was here at the start of November, he made some crack about how my next post really ought to be called “Baby Dog’s Third.” The next day I set out to write a post about anything, just so long as it would be done before next June. I got as far as “Charles is in town” before I was overwhelmed by work obligations and had to put it aside.

Having made it through an entire first paragraph, I have to say that things are looking up today.

For those not in the know, the last year has been the busiest one of my life. I have a full-time job, the familial obligations with which you’re familiar if you’ve read the faversham, and a couple of very involved extracurricular projects that have made it impossible to post regularly here. Even after dropping the paying freelance work I’ve done the last few years I’ve been too busy to do more than think about blogging. Still and all, it’s time I did a little catch-up before Baby Dog exits the terrible twos.

Though she’s been exhibiting many signs of a will of her own, the twos haven’t been that terrible. She has learned new rhetorical devices to forestall policies with which she disagrees (“But I do want to stay up! I really really do!”) and is not above resorting to tantrums. Last night at Halmoni’s she showed unexpected signs of having studied the oratory of Benito Mussolini, emphasising each syllabic break with a shake of her fist as she forcefully intoned “I want to get out of the high chair right now!”

Mostly, though, she just can’t help being her cute, diligent, sweet-tempered self. Here, for Charles to roll his eyes and skim past until the third birthday, is a list of cute Baby Dog items that I’ve been meaning to post about should I ever have time.

Friend Shark: Among her newer stuffed toys is a killer whale that Mama Dog found somewhere or other. I think it’s Shamu, but I’d have to check the label to be positive. Baby Dog decided early on that it was a shark and cannot be convinced otherwise. We told her it’s a killer whale, thinking maybe she’d find that cool, but the best compromise we could arrive at is that it’s a killer whale named “Shark.” In the last week or two, Baby Dog has decided that the critter is in fact named “Friend Shark.” A favourite game right now involves me circling Friend Shark around Baby Dog’s head, doing the Jaws theme: “Doo doo…….Doo doo……Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo….” until at last Friend Shark attacks and gobbles Baby Dog’s back. For some reason, it always has to be her back.

The Horse on Seventh Avenue: Baby Dog has had many additions to her bedtime songbook in the nearly six months since I last posted. I’m not sure how it got in there, but “The Boxer” by Simon and Garfunkel was one of the additions. I remember very clearly the first time I sang it to her at bedtime, I was doing the “seeking out the poorer quarters where the ragged people go” part when I flashed ahead and realised that I had a dilemma coming up. Namely, that part about the “come-on from the whores on Seventh Avenue.” That’s the problem with a folky light rock song that’s thirty years old and has long since been mulched for muzak. You forget that it really sprang from those same gritty streets from the Sidney Lumet movies. Not wanting Baby Dog to entertain her little friends at daycare by singing about whores, and thinking as fast as I could, I sang the line as “the girls on Seventh Avenue.” The line passed unnoticed and Baby Dog went to sleep. Later, I told Mama Dog about it, and she made a suggestion I should have thought of myself: “The horse on Seventh Avenue.” That’s how I’ve sung it ever since, and Baby Dog always supplies a “neigh” as an illustrative sound effect when we get to that part. Okay, maybe it’s a cheat. Maybe she’s going to grow up thinking I didn’t know what “whore” meant. On the other hand, maybe she’ll eventually think Daddy had a particularly filthy mind, updating a simple transaction between consenting adults to some sort of horribly degrading donkey show.

Spider-Man Update: Yes, she dressed in a Spider-Man costume for Halloween. She also has a Spider-Man trick-or-treat pail (unused this year since we didn’t go out, but ready for use next year), two Spider-Man dolls, a personalized Spider-Man book, a Spider-Man sticker book, a Spider-Man colouring book, two Spider-Man pillows, a Spider-Man quilt, Spider-Man pyjamas, a Spider-Man song on her Napster playlist, and the Spider-Man cartoon opening credit sequence bookmarked on Youtube. She’s all set for Spider-Man stuff for the rest of her childhood, but thanks to everyone who’s contributed.

The Halloween Party: We took Baby Dog (in her Spider-Man costume) to a neighbour’s daytime Halloween party. It was a Child-Friendly party, with a back yard full of toys and all the kids in costume. In a “you-know-you’re-so-far-north-in-Oakland-that- it-might-as-well-be-Berkeley” moment, our little girl was dressed as Spider-Man (she could by no means be persuaded there was such a thing as “Spider-Girl”) and another little boy at the party was dressed as a fairy princess. We really ought to have gotten a picture of the two of them together. Maybe you had to be there for this part, but we thought it was funny… Baby Dog’s most enduring memory of the party was meeting Watson, the cat of the house. Watson was very friendly, and sprawled on a table in front of us, accepting petting with great equanimity. Baby Dog has hardly ever been able to touch a cat – they usually run away when a toddler approaches – and she stood on her chair, able only to giggle and beam as she rubbed Watson’s belly. After a while we got distracted by other things, and by the time Baby Dog remembered the cat, Watson had disappeared. She lumbered about the yard, calling him: “WAAAAAT-SUUUUUN!” We’ve observed that our little girl is not really a delicate little flower. She was the loudest baby in the hospital on the day she was born, and time has diminished neither her powers of volume nor her ability to drop down into most unexpected levels of bass. She sounded like a little foghorn. “WAAAAAT-SUUUUUN!” Unsurprisingly, the cat did not come.

I’m sure there were other things I meant to blog about the last six months, but that’ll do for now, I think. I’ll try to post again before next June 25.

Baby Dog’s Second

Two years ago Baby Dog emerged from the womb and today we had a party to celebrate that grand entrance. In those first hours of her life I remarked more than once on how lucky my daughter was to have inherited the face of her mother. Mama Dog insists now that Baby Dog looks more like me. I disagree, but as we see more of Baby Dog’s personality asserting itself, I see the many ways she takes after me and I can only hope she learns more quickly than I did how to bear up under the handicaps I may have passed along. It’s become very clear, for example, that she doesn’t care for gatherings of unfamiliar people. I’ve pretty much written the book on that one. Practically from the moment we arrived at Halmonie’s house for the party, Baby Dog was looking at me hopefully, saying “Go home now?” She actually coped better at this one than she did at the BBQ/picnic a few weeks back (probably because the surroundings at least were familiar), but still, I’m pretty sure her favourite part of the party was the same as mine: when we snuck out for a few minutes to mail some letters at the mailbox on the corner. Well, okay, that and the chocolate cake.

After, when the only ones left were Mama Dog, Baby Dog, Halmonie, and me, Baby Dog lay down on the blanket under the canopy in the back yard and played with her Lego train engine, zooming it around like an airplane and singing a song she’d learned in daycare. It was the first time she’d looked relaxed all day, and as Mama Dog and I had one more slice of cake apiece so as to carry that much less home* and Daddy treated himself to a hard-earned glass of wine, we whiled some moments that were perfectly happy and companionable. She’s young, and nothing’s set in stone, but if she takes after me as much as it seems, she’s going to find such moments hard to come by in any company but that of the trusted few. I hope she adapts better than I did, and finds a way to relax in the company of strangers; but if not, I hope she at least she can always have such contentment after the party’s over and the company has gone away.
___________________
*Our story and we’re sticking to it.

Stripey Shirt

So, Baby Dog has reached the age where she has clear if sometimes somewhat randomly achieved preferences in food, music, activities, and now clothing. I mentioned her attachment to the Spider-Man t-shirt that Mama Dog got from a thrift store. It didn’t take long before she started saying “Spider-Man shirt” each time she got dressed for the morning. A while back, I was trying to put on a new shirt, a striped one that Mama Dog had picked up somewhere or other, and Baby Dog became defiant. In addition to having acquired preferences, she is also starting to assert defiance when these preferences are thwarted. She squirmed and whined and resisted being put in this awful new shirt. “Spider-Man shirt,” she insisted. This defiance phase is constantly requiring new and cunning stratagems on the part of her parents who, fortunately, are up to the task. I held the shirt up so that she could see it. “Look,” I said. “It’s striped. It’s a stripey shirt.” Then I started to sing, to the familiar Spider-Man tune, “Stripey shirt, stripey shirt/Put in on and it doesn’t hurt…” Intrigued to find that this shirt, too, came with a song, Baby Dog put up her arms and consented to be dressed. I continued to improvise. “It’s a shirt, partly red/There it goes, over your head/Hey there/There goes the stripey shirt.” And so on. Naturally, this has become an entrenched part of the ritual every time I dress Baby Dog in her now-beloved stripey shirt. The lyrics are different every time, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

Unintended consequence: last night at dinner time I turned on the Napster as usual and asked Baby Dog what she wanted to hear. She answered: “Stripey shirt on the computer?” I had to explain to her that “Stripey Shirt” is a song only sung by Daddy and that it does not exist in recorded form. I played “Spider-Man” instead, but clearly it wasn’t the same.

Apparently It Really Can Sell Anything

I’m still not ready to post regularly again, but yesterday I came across something in the paper I just had to share with you. The photo below was on the back page of the Chronicle business section yesterday.

I showed it to Mama Dog much as I’m showing it to you, with the paper folded so the ad copy couldn’t be read. I said, “See this picture of a fellow with his face buried in a young lady’s cleavage?” “Uh-huh,” said Mama Dog. “Can you guess what it’s advertising?” “Uh…Viagra?” she ventured. Good guess, but no.

The answer, if you dare, is here.

Papa Dog Holds No Monopoly On Lame Posts

See, it's tough to work and blog and have a life, so I do have a lot of sympathy for poor Dr. Duvalier, for his life includes wife, child, and quasi-professional textual activities. But the thing is, the guy's a good writer, and, well, a twenty-two month streak is a terrible thing to break. So here I am at the office, after midnight, listening to John Zorn and saying it ain't so.

My guess? The poor bastard needs a nap. So sleep, good Doctor. Let your friends pick up the slack. And if you really are putting down the Faversham for a while, know that we have sincerely appreciated the great effort that you've put into it these long months. You're good with the words, and that ought not go unsung. We're glad you've put them down, from the tales of pre-marital waste to the love notes to the wife, the smart-ass analyses of children's narratives, the passionate plea for your adopted country, even the cute bits about making the baby laugh.

Thanks, Doc. Don't stay in that sick room too long.

Reality Check

I guess it’s time to face the fact that something has to give, and that’s it’s going to have to be this faversham. I’ll be back when I have something to say and time to say it.

To Him, Life Is a Great Big Bang-Up

So, Mama Dog did a little thrift store shopping a while back and returned, somewhat mysteriously, with a Spider-Man t-shirt for Baby Dog. Even more mysteriously, this shirt quickly became one of the little girl’s favourites. She had no context for Spider-Man, no familiarity with the character. Possibly she just liked the colours or the sound of the name, I don’t know. In the natural way of things, I eventually succumbed to the temptation to sing what I could remember of the Spider-Man cartoon theme song while putting the shirt on her. Soon, she was requesting the song from me. I scoured the Napster for the original, to no avail. Eventually, I found an appealing lounge arrangement by something called the Gabe Lee 3, and added that to Baby Dog’s Greatest Hits. Now the song is a staple of meal times (on Napster) and bedtime (me singing to her). I never thought I’d have to re-learn the peculiar syntax of “Wealth and fame? He’s ignored.” Nor did I ever think I’d be able to sing “Is he strong? Listen, bud, he’s got radioactive blood” without laughing. But that’s what fatherhood does to you. For those not in the know, here are the words:

Spider-man, Spider-man
Does whatever a spider can
Spins a web, any size
Catches thieves, just like flies
Look out! Here comes the Spider-man!

Is he strong? Listen, Bud!
He's got radioactive blood.
Can he swing from a thread?
Take a look overhead.
Hey there, there goes the Spider-man!

In the chill of night,
At the scene of the crime
Like a streak of light
He arrives just in time

Spider-man, Spider-man
Friendly neighborhood Spider-man
Wealth and fame, he's ignored
Action is his reward

To him, life is a great big bang-up
Wherever there's a hang-up
You'll find the Spider-man!

Infatuation

The sunlight catches the city by surprise. It came so gradually, this slide towards summer. The city feels like someone who was dejected in life and suddenly found himself in the embrace of a new infatuation. Winter was easy, but it doesn't change the flush of pleasure that comes with the first unpleasantly warm day when the gals walk about in flimsy clothes and men dress with more attention paid to comfort than to style. Gone are the layers of gore-tex and wool; sweat beads collect upon our brows and the trash starts to smell just a tiny bit pungent.

I was sitting in the park when the sky began to turn. Twenty Puerto Rican guys were playing futbol and I was reading Knut Hamsun, writing me a letter from the Norwegian wildneress, condemning the lifestyle of the city-dweller and his disconnect from nature. The street noise surrounded the park and would be interrupted by the occasional songbird. The sky was blue and open, the sun gave off a rejuvenating burn. But from the distance the dark clouds marched in like a passing battalion. Great thunderheads that boomed and flickered. The rain came first in occasional fat droplets and quickly increased its tempo, turning the field immediately to mud. The children scurried off the swings and beneath their parents umbrellas. The Puerto Rican dudes continued their game, just like the professionals, and I put my book in the dry safety of my bag.

The rain passed in a quarter hour and I was soaked to the skin. The sun was back out and I walked across Brooklyn, letting its warm embrace dry my soggy clothes. Small steam came off the bricks of apartment houses as the water returned to the sky. The flimsy dresses were back out from under cover of awnings and tap rooms. This city has left behind the slow solitude of winter. It is a great moment, like the start of a relationship, where the lonely cold is gone, but the oppressive heat of routine has not yet set in.

Still no New Leaves

But soon. Really.

After the Party

We had a big party today. It wasn’t in our house at least, but it still involved a lot of schlepping and toting and much jumping through of logistical hoops. We are knackered. So no new leaves tonight.

Doggy Dog is a Red Stater

The other morning, Baby Dog was indulging in her recently acquired pre-meal ritual of looking inside the fridge (the “refrigelator” as she puts it) and identifying the contents of the Tupperware and other containers therein. “Strawberries! Avocado! Cheese! Yogurt!” As it happened, one of the Tupperware containers housed the leftovers from the previous night’s beef soup. When she reached up at it, Doggy Dog, who’d been unobtrusively monitoring her actions, lunged. It was no big deal, really. I was standing between them and at his first movement I said “No!” sharply, and he stopped on a dime and retreated. Baby Dog never even noticed, she was so absorbed in the contents of the refrigelator. But it was a sobering reminder of the wisdom of our doggy/baby apartheid policy. She’ll never be in the same room with him without close supervision. There’s just no telling when his little doggy brain is going to interpret Baby Dog’s benign curiosity as a threat to his food supply.

I told Mama Dog the story, and she got a little freaked out. Halmonie got very freaked out at third hand when Mama Dog passed it along. It revived the idea of finding a new home for Doggy Dog, though only briefly and not too seriously. “He sees her near the meat and thinks he’s acting in his own best interest to defend his food,” I said. “He has no idea that he’s doing the worst thing he can possibly do for his own well being.” That sounded familiar to me. After a moment’s thought, I realised why. “He’s like a lower income Republican,” I said. Mama Dog laughed. “The meat is patriotism.” Yes. It’s the American flag. It’s a partial birth abortion ban. It’s the God-given freedom to deny basic civil rights to homosexuals. “Yeah,” I said, “it’s what he thinks he has to protect, but acting to protect it just puts him that much closer to losing his place in this house.” Protecting the flag and the unborn and the traditional definition of marriage only gets him a big tax cut for people way richer than himself and a gradual dismantling of the regulations and social services that are there to protect him.

Featuring Guest Blogger Oscar Wilde

Last time I do this, promise. Take it away, Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde.

The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim. The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.

The highest, as the lowest, form of criticism is a mode of autobiography. Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.

Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things means only Beauty.

There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.

The nineteenth century dislike of Realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass.

The nineteenth century dislike of Romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass. The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium.

No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved. No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.

Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art. Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art. From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type. All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.

Those who read the symbol do so at their peril. It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors. Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital. When critics disagree the artist is in accord with himself. We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.

All art is quite useless.

Featuring Guest Blogger Joseph Conrad

After yesterday’s post, it would be just to mortifying to come back to you without a solid piece of prose. I don’t have one of my own handy, so I’ll have to turn to an actual GOOD (though dead) writer to fill in for me. Take it away, Mr. Korzeniowski.

“And this also,” said Marlow suddenly, “has been one of the dark places of the earth.”

He was the only man of us who still “followed the sea.” The worst that could be said of him was that he did not represent his class. He was a seaman, but he was a wanderer, too, while most seamen lead, if one may so express it, a sedentary life. Their minds are of the stay-at-home order, and their home is always with them—the ship; and so is their country—the sea. One ship is very much like another, and the sea is always the same. In the immutability of their surroundings the foreign shores, the foreign faces, the changing immensity of life, glide past, veiled not by a sense of mystery but by a slightly disdainful ignorance; for there is nothing mysterious to a seaman unless it be the sea itself, which is the mistress of his existence and as inscrutable as Destiny. For the rest, after his hours of work, a casual stroll or a casual spree on shore suffices to unfold for him the secret of a whole continent, and generally he finds the secret not worth knowing. The yarns of seamen have a direct simplicity, the whole meaning of which lies within the shell of a cracked nut. But Marlow was not typical (if his propensity to spin yarns be excepted), and to him the meaning of an episode was not inside like a kernel but outside, enveloping the tale which brought it out only as a glow brings out a haze, in the likeness of one of these misty halos that sometimes are made visible by the spectral illuminination of moonshine.

His remark did not seem at all surprising. It was just like Marlow. It was accepted in silence. No one took the trouble to grunt even; and presently he said, very slow:

“I was thinking of very old times, when the Romans first came here, nineteen hundred years ago—the other day. . . Light came out of this river since—you say Knights? Yes; but it is like a running blaze on a plain, like a flash of lightning in the clouds. We live in the flicker—may it last as long as the old earth keeps rolling! But darkness was here yesterday. Imagine the feelings of a commander of a fine—what d’ye call ‘em?—trireme in the Mediterranean, ordered suddenly to the north run overland across the Gauls in a hurry; put in charge of one of these craft the legionaries—a wonderful lot of handy men they must have been, too—used to build, apparently by the hundred, in a month or two, if we may believe what we read. Imagine him here—the very end of the world, a sea the colour of lead, a sky the colour of smoke, a kind of ship about as rigid as a concertina—and going up this river with stores, or orders, or what you like. Sand-banks, marshes, forests, savages,—precious little to eat fit for a civilized man, nothing but Thames water to drink. No Falernian wine here, no going ashore. Here and there a military camp lost in a wilderness, like a needle in a bundle of hay—cold, fog, tempests, disease, exile, and death—death skulking in the air, in the water, in the bush. They must have been dying like flies here. Oh, yes—he did it. Did it very well, too, no doubt, and without thinking much about it either, except afterwards to brag of what he had gone through in his time, perhaps. They were men enough to face the darkness. And perhaps he was cheered by keeping his eye on a chance of promotion to the fleet at Ravenna by and by, if he had good friends in Rome and survived the awful climate. Or think of a decent young citizen in a toga—perhaps too much dice, you know—coming out here in the train of some prefect, or tax-gatherer, or trader even, to mend his fortunes. Land in a swamp, march through the woods, and in some inland post feel the savagery, the utter savagery, had closed round him—all that mysterious life of the wilderness that stirs in the forest, in the jungles, in the hearts of wild men. There’s no initiation either into such mysteries. He has to live in the midst of the incomprehensible, which is also detestable. And it has a fascination, too, that goes to work upon him. The fascination of the abomination—you know, imagine the growing regrets, the longing to escape, the powerless disgust, the surrender, the hate.”

Brownstein, Nixon, Leaves

I saw Brownstein when I was on my secret mission. One of the first things he said to me was “I’ve got a funny present for you.” It turned out to be a vintage inflatable Nixon punching bag, acquired somewhere in NYC, the place where you can find anything. What fun for the whole family! I wish I could find a picture of it on the Internets. It catered to the obsession with Nixon shared by Mama Dog and yrs. sincerely, and is a fine addition to the household objects that Baby Dog can point at and accurately say “Nixon!” Moreover, it’s a small dummy, just the right size for Baby Dog to play with, which she’s been doing since I brought it home. Not, like, continuously, but, you know, regularly. Like.

Anyway, another gift Brownstein passed on was that of judicious disapprobation. He didn’t say it in so many words, but he took me to task for letting the faversham go down the crapper. It’s true I’ve had way too much on my plate for quite some time and have been giving this page especially short shrift. That’s as should be, of course – if this thing was my top priority, there’d be cause for worry. Still, I’ve felt bad for some time for not keeping up my end of the entertainment compact, and while I can’t promise to turn over a new leaf and keep it overturned, let it be known that I’m giving actual thought to how I might make this a more substantial faversham on a regular basis.

Just not tonight.

This Still Won’t Be a Proper Post, But….

I was only gone three nights, but Baby Dog seemed noticeably older to me when I return. More mature. She was standing in the living room, playing with Halmonie when I walked in the front door. She looked at me with jaw-dropped amazement, which turned into a big grin. Had she thought I wasn’t coming back? Who knows. I tried to explain every night for a week before I went away: “Daddy’s going on a trip. He’ll be gone tomorrow, which is Thursday, and he’ll be gone on Friday and Saturday, but he’ll come back Sunday.” By the time I left, she was repeating the whole spiel back to me, but I don’t think she understood much of it. The first thing she said to me on my return was “Kiss,” so I knelt down to give her one. She patted my stubbled face. “Beard,” she said. “A little bit,” I answered. “Do you want Daddy to grow his beard back?” “Beard,” she replied, patting my chin again.

Papa Dog is Back…

…and will get back to posting tomorrow. Thanks to Mama Dog for holding down the fort in my absence.

AMEX Ad

You must have seen those magazine ads for American Express, the "My Card" campaign featuring such celebrities as Kate Winslet and Ken Watanabe. If you haven't, the two-page spread shows said celebrity in a soulful pose -- obviously in the midst of deep contemplation -- to convey a sense of tranquilty and fulfillment. Of course those qualities are the polar opposite of what is normally associated with credit cards: greed for material things or despair over insurmountable debt. A questionnaire appears on the verso and features open-ended questions that have been allegedly answered by the featured celebrity in its own handwriting.

Here's a sample:

Proudest moment - When I gain trust from someone.
Biggest challenge - Life.
Perfect day - Searching for something I cannot reach.
Inspiration - I am inspired by so many things every day.
My life - is about taking my own path.
My card - is American Express.

That's all fine and dandy for Mr. Watanabe (who, from the photograph seems to have a bit of an equestrian fetish). But here's what I'd say:

Proudest moment - Holding my brand-new baby girl for the first time and thinking, "I made this!"

Biggest challenge - keeping the house clean

Perfect day - Sleep until 8 a.m., then have Papa Dog tie me down with rope so that I am not tempted to run around all day completing tasks.

Inspiration - Pristine water occuring in a natural setting.

My life - is what I have made it. I blame nobody.

My card - is usually Mastercard, except for when I buy gas, in which case it's American Express because that's all Costco accepts.

Splinter, Snail, & Bedtime

I found a wood splinter on Baby Dog's palm the other day. I was going about my usual business of wiping Baby's hands after supper in what we call minty bubbles (a metal bowl of warm, peppermint soapy water) and spied the puffy, red sore. "Oh no!" I exclaimed to Halmonie; "Baby Dog has her first splinter!" Halmonie said, "Oh no, eek! I can't possible do it! You do it!" and went into the next room. "Of course I'll do it," I thought, and proceeded to sterilize a sewing needle and my Tweezerman in a shotglass of rubbing alcohol. I then lifted Baby Dog onto my lap, took her hand, and began making a small hole in her skin out of which to pull the splinter. All the while, I reassured Baby Dog by telling her that we were going to use "Mr. Tweezer" to pull the splinter out and that she'd be okay. Baby Dog withstood the operation like a champ, until the needle pricking started to hurt. There was a bit of fussing, but no all-out bawling or screaming. After a couple of attempts, I pulled the offending piece of wood out and said, "All better!"

I find it amazing that, when kids have no preconception of something scary (e.g., a needle poking at their skin), they are fearless. Baby Dog regarded the sharp needle that I was about to jab into her flesh and didn't even flinch. Until I started poking and prodding too vigorously. I'll bet that next time she has a splinter, she'll recoil in fear when I get out the needle and tweezers. But maybe not. She's has a high tolerance for pain and discomfort, our girl does.

I've never removed a splinter from anyone's body but my own, but when I saw that Baby Dog had a need, I jumped right to the task with no fear. In a way, it was the opposite experience of what I've just described. While tweezing Baby Dog's wound, I could not shake the mental image of Ian Holm cutting a hole in his daughter's neck (to prevent her from dying of a spider bite) in that heart-breaking film by Atom Egoyan, The Sweet Hereafter. No fear at all. While I am all too aware of the scariness of certain situations, when my daughter is in danger or is hurt, I am all over it without a second thought.

Shellicky Booky

It rained in the East Bay today, which meant that the snails were out in full force. I found several on my evening dog walk and, on a whim, brought one into the house and placed it on the ledge of the bathtub while Baby Dog underwent her nightly ablution. We stared at it for a long time before it gathered the courage to put out its horns and start sliming along the porcelain. When it finally did, I said: "Okay, that's enough of that," and swiftly crushed the pathetic mollusk under my shoe. Well, no I didn't. I took it outside and placed it in a puddle on our front steps. But when I was a kid, I'd think nothing of crushing snails under my feet. What a sadistic little brat I was!

* * *

A Break in the Routine

Tonight bedtime was easy. After Baby Dog's bath, I read her "The Cat in the Hat Comes Back" (less fun than the original), sang her a couple of songs on the rocking chair (Dites Moi, Bicycle Built for Two, and Hush Little Baby), said "night-night," and put her in her crib to sleep. There was no "Start beginning" or any kind of fuss whatsoever. I was not even asked to go around the room so that Baby Dog could touch her owl, the moon, the pinecone, the ampersand, and other decor. We successfully broke from the bedtime routine! Perhaps our daughter is feeling more control over her world, therefore has less of a need to institute rituals for everything.

By Twizzle

Guest Blogging - Day 1

Didn't get a lick of sleep last night, thanks to the horrors of the Bay Area real estate market! To make a long story short, Halmonie, her Realtor, and I are involved in a bidding war with a seller that, to any sane person, would seem to border on the criminal. I'm talkin' Enron-type scandalous! Don't pay no mind to anyone saying the market's turning soft; it's still a total seller's market out there and a cut-throat one at that. The good thing about all this? Our house has at least tripled in price since we bought it in 2001. Too bad we ain't sellin'.

I've caught Baby Dog's cold and, on top of the insomnia, I'm cranky as all hell. No filters on anything I say when I'm this out of it. In an HR "work values" feedback session today I complained bitterly that my institution's compensation is shit. Then, I told a co-worker that the HR Director (a woman) looks like Bill Gates. You can't insult someone much lower than that. Okay - maybe Donald Trump. On the positive side, Papa Dog is off on a cool secret mission right now. Too bad we can't discuss on this faversham.

Last - Doggy Dog's bubo-like growth is showing no signs of improvement/shrinkage. I've been spraying the affected area twice a day, but it's still sore. He's gonna have to have the thing surgically removed, but not until we've taken him to the vet for bloodwork, first. What a total ass-pain. Well, more for him than for us. Poor doggie. He's 9 years old -- approximately equal to 56 in human years.

By Twizzle

On Vacation

Papa Dog’s taking a little vacation. Mama Dog will fill in for the next few days. Maybe she’ll tell you about Baby Dog and the splinter. See you next week.

Shellicky Bookey

Baby Dog’s new favourite song is another one from the Clancy Brothers, a very brief ditty that’s part of the “Children’s Medley” on In Person at Carnegie Hall. It goes:

Shellicky shellicky bookey
Put out all your hor-ns
All the ladies are comin’ to see-ee ya
(Repeat)

If for some reason you weren’t already aware of it, a shellicky bookey (spelling approximate) is a snail, and the intent of the song is to coax a snail out of its shell. Baby Dog learned of this song in the aftermath of a snail sighting wherein the snail was relieving itself. I wasn’t there, but Mama Dog swears that’s what happened. Our routine now is that Baby Dog requests “Shellicky Bookey,” I dutifully sing it baritone, and she solemnly observes “Snail take a poo.”

And If She Hadn’t Deleted Her Old Blog, I Could Link to the Post that Proves It

I was on an elevator today with two young ladies, chattersome twentysomethings. Big Blonde Girl was carrying on an apparently continuously streaming monologue for the benefit of Rapt Small Asian Girl. From the time the door closed on the ground floor to the time it opened on my floor maybe thirty seconds elapsed. During that time, I counted seven “likes” and three “y’knows” from BBG. I only started counting after she’d been at it long enough that it started to annoy me, so I estimate the full total for the thirty second trip was somewhere in the neighbourhood of twenty “likes” and ten “y’knows.” It didn’t really irritate me that much, but it would have pissed Mama Dog off.

A Short But Peaceful Night’s Sleep

Hey, Baby Dog slept all night last night! I was still short of sleep because I stayed up late, but still. No screaming fits in the wee hours. That really makes a difference. Unfortunately, with nothing to complain about and a way too busy week looming ahead, faversham inspiration is scant. So let’s just leave off until tomorrow.

Tough Mother's Day Morning

Baby Dog woke up at one-something Saturday a.m., howling like a bean sidhe, responding to all sleep-restoring gambits with the same screeched two-word complaint: “Start begiiiinnnnnniiiiiiinnnnnng!!!!” This went on for an hour, virtually non-stop high-decibel screeches and tears. It was probably necessary for us to be reminded that, as verbal as she is, Baby Dog’s really not yet old enough to be a truly reasonable creature, and that once such a tantrum begins meaningful communication of any kind becomes impossible. Mama Dog was the one who finally figured it out, by recognising the tone of the scream; it was the same as her pre-verbal “hungry” cry. We put her in the high chair, gave her a bran muffin, and we were all back to sleep within fifteen minutes.

This morning, Baby Dog woke up screaming again, though she let us sleep in until almost five. We again took turns trying to get her settled to no avail. It didn’t seem possible she was hungry again – unlike Friday night, she ate a full supper last night – but the sound was the same, so Mama Dog gave her breakfast. Unfortunately, while we were ready to go back to sleep after that, Baby Dog was convinced it was time for the day to start. I piled a bunch of her books in her crib and Mama Dog and I tried to catch the necessary few winks while the girl entertained herself. Around seven it became clear that Baby Dog wasn’t going to go back to sleep and, furthermore, she was tired of her literary selections. I hauled myself out of bed and took Baby Dog into the living room. I set her in front of her Mr. Potato Head set and curled up on the couch under an afghan, bobbing up and down about the meniscus of consciousness. Baby Dog looked up from the potato parts and said “Daddy is lying down on the blanket.” She had the order wrong – the blanket was on me, not the other way around – but I was impressed by the complexity of the sentence. Seven words. I’m pretty sure that’s her longest one yet.

Around nine, I got up to give her a snack, and shortly after that Mama Dog got up, having achieved as much of a Mother’s Day sleep-in as she deemed possible. All four of us – Papa, Mama, Baby, and Doggy – went out on a family walk, our two-year-running Mother’s Day tradition. We went to Bloomies to buy Mummy some flowers. I don’t think we took Doggy Dog last year, and he made things difficult this year, yelping when we had to stand too long in the flower line. Baby Dog fell asleep in the stroller on the way home, something she hasn’t done in ages (mostly because we’ve largely stopped using the stroller since she got the hang of walking). She was in her crib snoozing peacefully at 11 a.m., and a peaceful Mother’s Day midmorning descended.

Baby Dog’s Latest Amazing Feat

When Neighbour Mike went out of town, I agreed to pick up his mail for him. As it happened, I was home from work for a few days so I could be sure to get the mail shortly after it was delivered. I’d pop around the corner a few times every day with Baby Dog in tow. We’d walk around the corner, looking at the sights along the way, and go straight on to Neighbour Mike’s mailbox. If the mail hadn’t yet arrived I’d say, “No mail yet,” and we’d head home.

Today, Baby Dog asked to go out for a little stroll. I didn’t feel like crossing the street to check out the house with the kittycats, so instead we took a left turn at the corner, taking us in the direction of Neighbour Mike’s house. When Baby Dog caught sight of his front door and his empty mailbox, she said, “No mail yet.”

Now here’s the thing: that time Neighbour Mike was out of town? It was last year, end of August, start of September. Baby Dog was barely over a year old and only speaking isolated words…lots of words, but not much in the way of phrases or sentences. She never repeated the phrase “No mail yet” back then. I’ve never had occasion to repeat it in the context of Neighbour Mike’s house. But somehow she has retained it well enough to dredge it up eight months later. I know this won’t come as news, but I hopelessly marvel.

Good Night, Irene

Hey. I’m tired and drawing a blank, but I’ve been doing pretty well with the faversham the last while, so I’m not going to waste any guilt on this. I’ll write something more substantial tomorrow.

Papa Dog's Blog

Contributors

Books Read Since Commencing this Faversham

Saturday, January 04, 2014

Another Year, Another Post

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Ruminations on the Natural World

Friday, August 10, 2012

It's Been More than a Year Since I Last Posted?

Monday, August 01, 2011

Family Vacation

Thursday, January 27, 2011

An Update

Sunday, July 11, 2010

More Coming

Tuesday, February 09, 2010

April Wine in the Hall

Thursday, February 04, 2010

So 2006.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

And in other news...

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Much Better, America

Friday, December 12, 2008

Your Official Guide to Levels of Coldness, As Compiled By an Actual Canadian

Saturday, May 17, 2008

An Email I Just Sent to Thomasandfriends Period Commercial

Monday, January 21, 2008

Concrete and Barbed Wahr

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

Baby Dog Reads

Thursday, August 30, 2007

How Cretins Boogie

Tuesday, July 31, 2007

A Brief Encapsulation of What's Wrong With America

Monday, July 09, 2007

Rock Glasses

Tuesday, June 26, 2007

Baby Dog's Third

Monday, May 07, 2007

In the Neighbourhood

Wednesday, January 17, 2007

VAMFW

Tuesday, December 05, 2006

The Irish Rovie

Monday, November 20, 2006

Also:

No, You’re Not Seeing Things: This Is a New Post

Sunday, June 25, 2006

Baby Dog’s Second

Tuesday, June 13, 2006

Stripey Shirt

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

Apparently It Really Can Sell Anything

Wednesday, May 31, 2006

Papa Dog Holds No Monopoly On Lame Posts

Tuesday, May 30, 2006

Reality Check

Monday, May 29, 2006

To Him, Life Is a Great Big Bang-Up

Infatuation

Sunday, May 28, 2006

Still no New Leaves

Saturday, May 27, 2006

After the Party

Friday, May 26, 2006

Doggy Dog is a Red Stater

Thursday, May 25, 2006

Featuring Guest Blogger Oscar Wilde

Wednesday, May 24, 2006

Featuring Guest Blogger Joseph Conrad

Tuesday, May 23, 2006

Brownstein, Nixon, Leaves

Monday, May 22, 2006

This Still Won’t Be a Proper Post, But….

Sunday, May 21, 2006

Papa Dog is Back…

Saturday, May 20, 2006

AMEX Ad

Friday, May 19, 2006