About six months ago we got a dog--a puppy, really, though by that point she was eight months old and nearly full grown. But like most dogs, I doubt she'll outgrow her puppy tendencies until she's 3 or 4, or maybe older. I'm not sure. She's my first.
She's a blue heeler with a docked tail (the previous owners' doing), a mischievious smile, and very little grace to her name. But she can run. Whenever we take her to the dog park, she likes to start a game of tag, where she's the target and everyone else is 'it.' She loves sticks. She'll take a good stick over a ball any day, but we don't expect her to bring either back. She's excellent at fetching, but she's a bit like a racoon. She collects. She hordes. And she's a sneak. She'll steal a stick right out of another dog's mouth, and they just stare, stunned, because they never see her coming.
We named her Halo after the video game. It was meant to be a joke. The other option was Zelda. (Yes, also like the video game.) We were watching a commercial for the newest Halo game on television and I said it, "What if we named her Halo?"
A pause. A smirk. "I kind of like that."
Halo.
Of course, whenever we tell people her name they sort of hesitate. "Like the video game?"
Yes. Like the video game. At least it's a good story.
When Halo gets excited, she wags her whole body. She doesn't have a tail, as I said, just a little nub, and that shakes, too. When she follows us from room to room her body goes U-shaped, she's so damn eager to see what we're doing, whether or not she'll be invited, but she's got to keep moving forward.
After she eats, she digs. In the sofa, on the bed. She rolls around on the floor and groans with pleasure. Really, she looks a little psychotic. It's endearing.
Halo is a bed hog. When I'm alone she sleeps with her back pressed right up against mine, so I'm gripping the mattress to keep from falling off. When I try to scoot her over, she growls. When it's cold, she worms her way between us, underneath the covers. She always manages to find the warmest spot. When we wake, we find her lying there, belly up, staring, as though she never belonged anywhere else.
She loves peanut butter. And cheese. And chorizo. Apples. She's taken watercress before. She enjoys rum, but not Jack Daniels. I'm the same.
She's afraid of the vacuum cleaner. She barks whenever the doorbell rings, even if it's on television. She knows the morning alarm means it's time to wake up. If not, she wakes us. She'd rather have her belly scratched than her head. She chews the insoles out of shoes, but not the shoes themselves. She eats grass. She uproots plants. Just grabs one branch, and rips the entire thing out of the soil. We think she may have been a gardener in another life. She likes to chase ducks. And squirrels. She's scared of cats, though. A scaredy cat. When she's really hyper, she does laps around the apartment. She crashes into walls a lot that way.
She fell out of the car once. We had the windows rolled down, and she was catching the breeze, tongue out, eyes squinted shut against the wind. She got a little too excited. Luckily I was only moving about five miles an hour. She was fine. When I got of the car, she turned and looked at me as if to say What the heck did you push me for?
Like I said, not much grace. Good thing we didn't name her Gracie. That one was my idea.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
The Moon
When I see the moon I think...
...and the moon sees me. I never learned that song when I was a kid.
...driving to Columbus, Georgia, on a winding back road, with pine trees closing in on me from both sides, not a single streetlamp. But I didn't need any. The moon was so full, so bright, like the earth's own enormous fluorescent flashlight. Midnight, the windows down a crack, the wind exhilarating, the radio serenading me. And me thinking, I will remember this moon. I will remember this moment. Some day, I will write about this moon.
...my inevitable change in mood. I'd rather have the moon be half-full, or half-empty, or just a tiny sliver like a nail-clipping, than its total roundness. As soon as its full, I get loopy. I cry. I always cry, but more so when the moon is full. I'm like Jekyll and Hyde--better yet, Tigger and Eeyore. Bouncy, light-hearted, positively glowing for no apparent reason, and suddenly it's, "Hi, Pooh...oh, fine." And of course I always wonder, What in God's name is wrong with me? Ah, yes, the moon. It's full.
...cheese. Swiss, cheddar. I'm coming around to brie. Monterey Jack. Never much cared for bleu, unless it intended to smother my buffalo wings. I had several stinky cheeses in Paris last summer. Some just smelled awful. One smelled like feet. Tasted like feet, too.
...that incredibly sad movie with Reese Witherspoon, "Man in the Moon" or "Man on the Moon". I always get the two confused. Reese Witherspoon was only like twelve in that movie. I cried. Of course. And then the other, whichever it is, with Jim Carrey. A friend recommended it. Said it was genius. Maybe I was too young--only thirteen or fourteen--didn't get it. Not even remotely funny. Like the Simpsons. Crickets.
...CCR. My old room mate caught me singing along. "I see the bad moon rising..." Which never made much sense to me. I always replaced "bad" with "red" partly because that's what it sounded like the guy was talking about, but mostly because I could relate to a red moon. I spent a night on the beach once, huddled with someone I love on a lifeguard tower. We licked soft-serve ice cream we bought for a dollar, racing to beat it from melting before we'd finished. He had a system, moving in methodic circles around the small tower of cream. My hands were covered in sticky chocolate, like a child's would be. Ice cream shouldn't be eaten methodically I don't think. We finished. We talked. I don't remember about what. I remember something about Howard Stern (is it Howard?) in a grape suit. That may have been a different conversation, same beach. We both noticed it at the same time, a faint red glow far out in the water. A spaceship, I thought. I said it. "A spaceship." He laughed. "No." But, I kept thinking it, a spaceship, watching it grow, rising from the water. The higher it got, the less red it seemed. It took us a while to realize it was the red moon rising.
...and the moon sees me. I never learned that song when I was a kid.
...driving to Columbus, Georgia, on a winding back road, with pine trees closing in on me from both sides, not a single streetlamp. But I didn't need any. The moon was so full, so bright, like the earth's own enormous fluorescent flashlight. Midnight, the windows down a crack, the wind exhilarating, the radio serenading me. And me thinking, I will remember this moon. I will remember this moment. Some day, I will write about this moon.
...my inevitable change in mood. I'd rather have the moon be half-full, or half-empty, or just a tiny sliver like a nail-clipping, than its total roundness. As soon as its full, I get loopy. I cry. I always cry, but more so when the moon is full. I'm like Jekyll and Hyde--better yet, Tigger and Eeyore. Bouncy, light-hearted, positively glowing for no apparent reason, and suddenly it's, "Hi, Pooh...oh, fine." And of course I always wonder, What in God's name is wrong with me? Ah, yes, the moon. It's full.
...cheese. Swiss, cheddar. I'm coming around to brie. Monterey Jack. Never much cared for bleu, unless it intended to smother my buffalo wings. I had several stinky cheeses in Paris last summer. Some just smelled awful. One smelled like feet. Tasted like feet, too.
...that incredibly sad movie with Reese Witherspoon, "Man in the Moon" or "Man on the Moon". I always get the two confused. Reese Witherspoon was only like twelve in that movie. I cried. Of course. And then the other, whichever it is, with Jim Carrey. A friend recommended it. Said it was genius. Maybe I was too young--only thirteen or fourteen--didn't get it. Not even remotely funny. Like the Simpsons. Crickets.
...CCR. My old room mate caught me singing along. "I see the bad moon rising..." Which never made much sense to me. I always replaced "bad" with "red" partly because that's what it sounded like the guy was talking about, but mostly because I could relate to a red moon. I spent a night on the beach once, huddled with someone I love on a lifeguard tower. We licked soft-serve ice cream we bought for a dollar, racing to beat it from melting before we'd finished. He had a system, moving in methodic circles around the small tower of cream. My hands were covered in sticky chocolate, like a child's would be. Ice cream shouldn't be eaten methodically I don't think. We finished. We talked. I don't remember about what. I remember something about Howard Stern (is it Howard?) in a grape suit. That may have been a different conversation, same beach. We both noticed it at the same time, a faint red glow far out in the water. A spaceship, I thought. I said it. "A spaceship." He laughed. "No." But, I kept thinking it, a spaceship, watching it grow, rising from the water. The higher it got, the less red it seemed. It took us a while to realize it was the red moon rising.
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