South of the border?

Georgie the Burrito Baby.
Also known as our little Mexican Jumping Bean.
I think in another life he lived in Mexico.

When I look at this picture, I can not help but think about flying on a plane.  Or, I suppose I should say, falling asleep when I'm flying on the plane.  You know that feeling when you wake up suddenly and can feel that your mouth is hanging open?  And you can't help but wonder:

Was I snoring?

I really couldn't tell you if Georgie worries about things like that, but judging from his relaxed demeanor, I'd guess not.  In fact, it does not look to me that he has a care in the world.

As it should be.

Gold Star for: Bunny!

Bunny is a little princess!  She gets a Gold Star.

We keep Bunny shaved because she honestly seems to prefer it that way.  When her hair gets too long, she mopes around the house and her fur starts looking greasy because she can't keep up with it.  Although when she first gets shaved she looks a little silly--we call her a Fooferdoodle because she looks like a poodle--once you get used to it you'll notice that she is much happier with her bobbed haircut.  She skips around the house joyfully and is more active period.  She smiles more often.

At any rate, this past weekend I took her in for her regular grooming appointment.  Her groomer is a gal that used to partner up with my veterinarian but has since branched out and now runs her own business.  She broke away from the vet probably a year and half ago, and we've been loyal customers ever since.

It wasn't easy to remain loyal because I never knew her name or even met her when she worked at the vet.  The staff at the vet's ran the show and I would just drop Bunny off and pick her up later.  Every time they'd ask, "Does she need sedation?  Is it okay to give it if she does?"  And I would say, "Nope, and yes."  But Bunny never needed to be sedated.

Skipping back to the topic of the groomer branching out on her own . . . At last I figured out her business name and number and I gave her a call.  I told her who I was but didn't expect any bells to go off in her mind since I knew we'd never met.  I described my "gray foofy cat" to her and she said, "Sure!  I remember her.  I'd be happy to make an appointment for you."

And that was that.  For the past year and a half we've had steady appointments, but it was only just this past weekend that I found out the rest of the story.  I've noticed before that the groomer, with her new office and big sign proclaiming her services and the fees for each one, did not have any cat services listed.  I thought that was a little odd since I was there with my cat, I just dismissed it and never thought much about it.  Until over the weekend when I asked if she'd also groom my mother-in-law's cat (who she did once in the past, while she still worked at the vet).  Her answer shocked me:

She doesn't do cats!

But . . . Bunny is a cat!  Well, I guess the truth of the matter is that if someone calls in to make an appointment, she refuses to groom cats!  She has no prices listed because it's not a regular service that she provides!  She charges me her old rate from when she worked at the vet, but will not take on any new cat clients!  She hates grooming cats (they're wiggly and have skin like paper).

But, get this!  She's glad to groom Bunny and (apparently) one other cat.  They are the two exceptions to her rule:  Bunny, a.k.a. Princess, and this other unknown cat are IT!

I'm so proud.

Even the dogs know it's a sin to disturb the Princess.
Wiggle-worm-Georgie, who leaves bruises on me from his pointy, pokey,
inconsiderate feet,will wait until she decides to get up and leave.
Neither dog will sniff her or bother her, and just crowd

together until the bed becomes available.

Too funny.

Now THAT'S a big nose!

Doggie circus

Please pardon the low-quality picture.
I think I must have been laughing; couldn't hold my hand still.

Papa was putting on his shoes and I had my back to him when all of a sudden I heard him ask, "Do I have a dog on my back?"

I'll never understand how our pets get these bright ideas into their heads, or what they think they're going to accomplish sometimes!  Crazy little circus clown.

Bird's eye baby

I especially love how his cheek is squished and wrinkled against my side.  I was holding him on his back like a baby with his head cradled in the nook of my arm, and he was so relaxed his jaw sagged open like when you fall asleep on an airplane.  He only opened his eyes because I moved to grab my phone . . . after I took the picture, they slowly drifted shut again.  He didn't move.

Izzy, in the background, was my elbow rest, and she didn't even twitch when I took the picture.

Georgie's Snoopy face

I had a moment tonight.  I have not laughed this hard since . . . I honestly do not know the last time I laughed this hard.  There were tears, real tears, splashing on the leather of the sofa beneath my prostrated cheek.  My stomach was clenched so tight I was curled up in a ball.  I scared the cat out of the room.

It was a good moment.  Brief, just a flash of a second, but still an enormous moment.  The repercussions being that I will never be able to look at my dog without laughing again.

Unfortunately, capturing an identical moment on camera is utterly impossible. There's just no way I could ever be that prepared with a camera.  Even if I knew it was coming.  And I had no clue what was coming.

Dan and I were innocently watching television.  More trashy TV, of course . . . Make it or Break it, this time.  Yes, the tweenage show about high school gymnasts.  It's right down there with Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders, and we love it.  It unknowingly set the tone for the evening.

During the day the dogs are confined in one part of the house (which is, just so we don't sound like jail wardens, more space than I had in my 2 bedroom apartment).  By having the dogs sectioned off it gives the cats free rein, keeps Blake from becoming a hermit because he can come out of the bedroom to eat, and (the least of our concerns, when all is said and done) also saves our leather furniture from the tornado of destruction that is disguised as Georgie.  Right after we ate our dinner in front of the TV, Dan left the room to let them out, and I stayed on the couch, fast-forwarding through the commercial.

Izzy was the first to appear around the corner.  She came thundering around the bend--a delicate elephant--and just before she hit the oddly located linoleum (our house is stupid) I saw her slow down and walk cautiously over what is, in her mind, a bizarre patch of slipperiness.

Georgie has yet to learn.  Perhaps he can't learn.  Perhaps it's all part of the fun?  He's not a cautious dog, that's for certain, so maybe he does it on purpose.  Whatever the answer is about Georgie's motivation, every night like a broken record, right after Izzy's dainty entrance, he pops into view like a fart and goes skidding across the linoleum. An unruly squirt, the size of chaos.

This time, like always, Georgie came a-flyin' around the corner, skating across the linoleum, and once his feet touched the shag he leaped into the air to sail over the ottoman and land next to me on the couch.  No matter how many times I've seen it, the white and black flying blur is frightening enough to make me flinch and brace myself for the impact.  How can such a small dog create that much force when he lands on you?  I think it's his teeny, pointed feet.  Ten pounds is a lot when it's concentrated on feet the size of needlepoints.

But this time my bracing was unnecessary. Something didn't go as he planned.

Somewhere he missed a step.  He did the flying, the skating, the leaping, but then . . . it all went wrong.  Instead of sailing cleanly over the ottoman, his foot touched down and threw him off balance.  He jerked and wobbled, flailed for his center of gravity like someone who hits an unexpected patch of ice. Ever the vigilant gymnast, he managed to gain his balance and the interrupted momentum propelled him forward like a rock skipping across a still pond.

Except with Georgie a rock skip is more like a rudimentary vault, wholly unacceptable.  Skipping rocks is something old men do when they're tired of fishing.  My little acrobat decided that he would not, could not, come out of this botched job looking like an old man.  He had to fix it or be damned.

Mid leap, mid skip, he thought fast and went for the glory.  Instead of allowing his body to placidly finish its skip across the pond (er, ottoman) and land nimbly next to me on the couch (which is assuredly what would have happened), he used the foot touching the ottoman to spring shockingly upward.  Somehow the angle of his body changed, became vertical, and for a freeze-frame instant he hung in the air--a twisted, grinning salmon.  I heard the click of my mental camera, and always and forever will remember Georgie the Ham intentionally posing, unconsciously an imitation of Snoopy doing the Happy Dance on top of his doghouse.  I was looking up at him from the couch, actually I was almost underneath him, and he was suspended mid-air.  All I could see were his arms stretched wide, a white belly, and black ears stuck to both corners of a joyous smile.

If we'd had time, we both would have thought that he was going to make it.  But the camera started rolling again, and the Snoopy impersonation melted away as the gleeful curlicue of his taut body continued its descent toward the couch.  Neither of us were aware of the fact that he wasn't going to land next to me until he crashed into the cushy pillow of the cushion and disappeared to the floor.

Without any hesitation, he bounced up and started preening triumphantly.  He dusted off his shoulders with a casual nonchalance, and peeked around for the Shakespearean chorus standing stage left and holding up perfect 10's.  When that failed, he looked for applause from Dan and me.

But we were frozen, staring at him in disbelief.  The scene was stuck, it kept replaying over and over in my mind.  Oblivious to our uncultured ignorance and still jubilantly high over his victorious feat, Georgie came over to me and said clearly as if he'd spoken out loud, "I'm a-may-zing."  He looked over his shoulder at Dan with a proud, accomplished, "Did you see that?" look on his face.

Dan and I collapsed.  Blind with hilarity, we simply let go and allowed ourselves a few minutes of insane-asylum-caliber laugher.  Georgie walked back and forth between us, confused and defensive.

"I do my own stunts," he explained seriously.  The laugher rose up a level.  "No really.  I'm that talented," he insisted expertly. The laughter reached the point that we were actually silent.  Georgie started pouting when he realized that we wouldn't--couldn't!--believe him, and then he gave up.

He's still sulking and muttering under his breath about the injustice of living with a house full of artless philistines who are completely unappreciative of his superior athleticism and ferocity in the face of danger.

See the linoleum behind him?

It's hard to explain because--again--the layout of our house is dumb.

Inspiration soup or pie or some other food

Sometimes you really have to work for your inspiration, and other times you suddenly realize it's sitting right in front of you. Licking its butt.

I've been flatlining lately, and I've got to dig myself out of a hole. I think I've been making it too hard. All I need to be inspired is right in front of me. There are ingredients left half-hazardly on the counter, hiding in the back of the pantry, misplaced in the veggie crisper instead of the fruit crisper, and strewn across the counter--that damnable line of crumbs (when was the last time anyone had toast?!). My job is to throw the good stuff together, the interesting stuff, the unique stuff, and come up with a tasty concoction. Not a bowl of crap.

Mmmm, mmmm, good.



You look worried!



Tell me, what's wrong? You think I'm going to eat one of the pets because I'm using their pictures to demonstrate my Inspiration Pie?! Gasp!



That's just gross. Of course not!! You need to relax.



That's right. Now curl up with your bankie, and I'll explain the Inspiration Pie.



Okay, my ingredients are my pets after all, but only their personalities. The little pieces of their personalities come shining through sometimes, and when I look at them, I have to write. I have to share it with the world, show you what I see. So you will believe that I'm not crazy, nor yet obsessed, but merely . . . observant, I am thinking?

It's the anthropomorphist debate all over again, but I will never understand how a person could look at these photos and not see these traits:


Sass.


Innocence.


Mischieviousness.


Contentment.


Insolence.


Bliss.


Tomfoolery.

These are simply the ingredients of inspiration, and no matter where you find them (sneaking up on the counter looking for the random crumbs, or sprawled across the bed or the floor or the couch), there really is only one thing left that you can do with all these fixin's:

Feast, feast, feast until you pass out, completely sassified.

The anti-anthropomorphic gene? **Updated

**Update: I changed things around and added quite a bit. When I re-read it, it just wasn't floating my boat, and I hadn't gotten out all I needed to say. So here it is . . . the new and improved version:

Anthropomorphism. It's genetic, it's inherent, it's as much a part of me as my pale skin and incurable sarcasm. Anthropomorphism makes me me.

My question is (drumroll please): how can a person NOT be anthropomorphic? Is there an non-anthropomorphism gene too?

Now, I'm not so much as a fool as to say that everyone should be an anthropomorphist, or that it's a matter of educating the non-anthropomorphics. Nor do I really believe it's genetic (any more so then sarcasm, hot tempers, stubbornness). People learn/choose to be anthropomorphic (or not), we should celebrate differences, diversity makes the world go round, blah blah blah.

I'm just saying: I don't get it when people are so against anthropomorphism (that is to say, a non-anthropomorphic is actually anti-anthropomorphism).

I do not comprehend how a person can look at this picture of Gazelle and not HEAR her say: "So a horse walked into a bar and the bartender said, 'Why the long face?' "






The fact that I'm putting words in her mouth, not to mention the fact that I'm bestowing upon her a sense of humor which is an emotion that horses may or may not have the mental capacity to possess, makes me an anthropomorphist. Maybe I'm full of bunk, maybe I don't know crap about crap, but . . . neither do the non-anthropomorphics (definitively). In the end, it's always and forever only going to be a debate because NO ONE will ever possibly know for sure one way or the other. So, I suppose I can understand when a person is just not an anthropomorphic (doubtful pause), but . . . when a person is so adamantly against anthropomorphism, that's where I get all riled up. They don't know any better than I do, so why can't they let me have my fun? And, how dare they imply that any of my animals don't have the mental capacity to understand any emotion.

I could be wrong. Perhaps animals don't have the capacity of feeling human emotions. Or maybe there's some magic line on the emotional continuum between simple and complex emotions, and maybe animals can only feel simple emotions. Personally, I don't think so. I think when an inexperienced rider kicks Gazelle and pulls back (which means, in Horse, "Go forward, but don't!") it ANNOYS her. I can tell because she pins her ears, opens her eyes wide, swishes her tail, and snorts. Her horse brain may or may not have a "word" for that, but come on. It's annoyance, plain as day. I certainly get annoyed when I get conflicting or confusing instructions (Outlook help topic: "Go to Business Contact Manager" in the folder list -- WHERE THE HELL IS THAT?!). Why shouldn't a horse get annoyed too?

Gazelle understands humor, too. I'm sure of it because how else does one explain all the headaches she gave me for the three years I taught lessons? Not only does Gazelle understand humor and sarcasm, but she gives you exactly four chances to prove you know how to ride. And once you've used up your four chances (where is counting and math on this scale of complexity and mental capacity?), you may as well get off and try again some other day. After the fourth chance Gazelle categorizes you as an idiot and there's no way to recover (although you can be forgiven if you try again another time--where does forgiveness fall on the magic scale?).

Where's a non-anthropomorphist when you need one? I wish there would have been one around to see the way Gazelle used to look at me when a person had used up their four chances. She would stop, plant all four feet in the middle of the arena, look at me and say as clearly as if she spoke out loud in English, "Where'd you find this schmuck?" Undeniable proof, I say.

What about jealousy though? Simple or complex? I think if an animal is capable of feeling annoyance/humor/sarcasm/forgiveness, why shouldn't they feel jealousy or coquetry? Just try and tell me that my cat isn't pouting/sulking when he's sitting on the other side of the room, glaring at me because I didn't let him make biscuits on my stomach me (Blake does that--he's too fat, it gives me bruises!).

To me there is irrefutable evidence supporting anthropomorphism.  The people out there that refuse to believe my assessment flabbergast me. Intrigue me? Make me mad? All of the above?

Now, I do like to practice what I preach when it comes to the To Each Their Own philosophy. And for the most part, I do (you know, except when it comes to making grammatical errors on purpose . . . why, why, WHY?!). But when it comes to the people out there who are not just non-anthropomorphists, but they are anti-anthropomorphism . . . how does that figure into my theory of genetics? I can play around that a person either does or doesn't have the anthropomorphic gene, but what about the people who are ANTI anthropomorphism? They are just as confused by me as I am by them.

I think I'm getting a little lost with my over use of the word anthropomorphism . . . .

Anthropomorphists: People like me who speak about/to/for our pets (and any other animals) like they are people. Which is to say: we talk about our pets, to our pets, and for our pets, and we do not distinguish in a re-captured conversation if the being speaking is human, canine, feline, equine, ad infinitum.

Case in point: I do a demonstration of Gazelle's response when she steps on your foot: [pointing to her missing eye emphatically] "I only have one eye!" She shouts it at you like you're an idiot for not having noticed.

Another case in point (and a double-whammy): I've compared Gazelle, with all the love in my heart and without any disrespect to the person, to Stevie Wonder. Her favorite thing in the world is falling asleep while listening to people talk, but as she dozes she likes to know where you're at so frequently she'll lean sideways to touch your arm gently with her nose; it looks for all the world like Stevie Wonder rocking side to side while he plays.

Non-anthropomorphists: These are the people out there that think I'm full of crap because animals are just animals. They think not only do animals not have feelings, but they don't even have the intelligence to have the emotional scope of a human being. When listening to one of my stories, they say/think, "Believe what you want, but you're an idiot." Most of these people do not own animals, did not have animals around as a child, and don't think it's sad that they didn't and don't. They smile at me insincerely . . . the same smile they would give to a 25 year old that still believed in Santa Claus.

The look isn't always given maliciously. In fact, in my experience, it's usually isn't. So perhaps I need to take back my quote above, "Believe what you want, but you're an idiot." I'm specifically thinking of an old coworker I had (that is to say, a coworker at a previous job, not an elderly coworker). This person, let's call her Jemima Davis (after Jim Davis, one of my favorite anthropomorphic cartoonists), is a very kind, intelligent person. She loves studying and all forms of academia, goes to a Unitarian church, and at the time I knew her was a high level manager in a very large company.

Jemima Davis not only doesn't have the anthropomorphist gene, she is also anti-anthropomorphism. All animals are "rats" to her. Birds = flying rats. Fish = swimming rats. Dogs, cats, horses . . . all rats.

How can you say such things, I would ask her, completely appalled. And offended! I tried not to be offended, because she wasn't calling my beloved pets rats. She was saying all animals are rats. But I took it personally, and tried my darndest to reform her by telling her anecdotes of my fuzzy family.

It was a lost cause. Even hearing about how Gazelle is a drama queen, how smart she is, how funny she is . . . it didn't help. I'd tell her about Blake and his princely lolling . . . she'd smile at my description, take joy in my joy, but at the same time she wouldn't believe it, didn't find joy in it herself. To me there is nothing better than seeing my pets happy, content, relaxed. To Jemima, a happy, content, relaxed pet only equals a mess to vacuum up later and a potential infestation of vermin.

I don't GET it! Pretending to know what our animals are thinking does not make a person crazy or soft-headed. I try to be so open-minded (rather, I try not to be close-minded) about different lifestyles and beliefs, but anti-anthropomorphism is something I just can not, do not, will not understand. When I come home from work and see our little doggies bouncing with joy, how can someone say it's NOT joy?

How could someone say those little faces aren't smiling? How could a person NOT see:


"Kiss me! Hug me! Love me!"


"So . . . what do you want?"


"Don't be mad, Mama. It's not my fault! He did it!"


"I love you."

"Where's my cocktail and full body massage?"


Izzy is the annoyed big sister.
Bunny needs a t-shirt that says, "I'm with stupid."
Or, perhaps, "Who farted?" Tough call.


"Hee hee hee."
Joey Tribioni hiding in the big box.
 
I guess I am a fool after all--I do think it's a matter of education. Always and forever I believe that the anti-anthropomorphists just need to meet my pets, and then they will understand.

Then they will believe.

Georgie the Martyr

Unfortunately, you don't really hear the sound that accompanies this video. As he is fussing with his bed, he is grunting and groaning and lamenting about the sad, sorry state of his life.

And such a life! A life in which bed pillows won't cooperate and blankets refuse to poof up into proper order. Such a travesty! If this video had sound, you would hear a frazzled and muttering Georgie cursing the bed in such a state of disarray and complaining, "If I want something done right, I guess I'll just have to do it myself!"

Look at his lip!

He looks a little creepy, but he's actually just sleeping.  I think his lip is hilarious; look how relaxed he is!  Apparently he had a hard day with pulling the stuffing out of his new racoon toy.

It was a tough job, but someone had to do it.

He looks a little remorseful, but I think it's just because with all the stuffing pulled out now the game is over.

Apparently he isn't losing sleep over it.

Georgie's story

George "Georgie" Bernard Shaw, named after the author of Pygmalion.

Georgie is a pipsqueak. He's just a little guy!

There is something about his face and his eyes that is so little, so tortuously cute, it kind of breaks your heart. Breaks your heart because you just want to snuggle him all day . . . he must need it to keep his cute meter up.

Unfortunately, he's much too energetic for that kind of crap. He'll let you hold him for 10 seconds if you're lucky (if not--only five seconds). Then he wiggles and jerks and contorts himself into the most unbelievable shapes until you HAVE to set him back down.

Of course, he immediately starts jumping in front of you like he wants you to pick him back up.

We call Georgie our little Mexican Jumping Bean. He has springs in his legs, and as soon as he hears you rattling your keys to get in the door, he starts boinging. We don't use our front door, we come into the house using a side door that goes to the kitchen. In our kitchen, we have installed an automatic sensor light that senses motion and turns on as soon as you walk into the room. I assume was invented by a person with pets who did not want their dogs turning the light on every time they walked into a room, because it does not register the dogs walking across the kitchen to greet us as we walk in. But the funny thing is that Georgie gets so excited and jumps so high that he triggers the light and turns the light on for you before you even walk in the door!

Georgie is not content with just using the floor for bouncing. He has also discovered it is the mostest fun to use humans as vertical trampolines. Men in particular have a squishy spot mid-level that is the perfect to jump at and then use to spring backwards. Most of our male guests do not appreciate this, but Georgie finds it immensely funny.

Especially if when the gentleman in question is doubled over and Izzy licks him in the face. It's a warzone at our house.

The cutest thing ever is that Georgie is so wiggly, he actually wiggles mid-air when he's bouncing. He always jumps high enough to get a wig in, but sometimes he's in the air long enough to get a wig and a wag. That is really funny. He's like some sort of demented gymnast.

It takes a lot to get The Georganator tired, but once you do . . . when you pick him up to snuggle he'll lay his head on your shoulder and sigh. It's as if he's saying, "Hold me!"

Georgie is the most compact tornado that has ever existed . . . rather than wind, it's love that boils and surges around him. You can almost see the love oozing out of all of his pores, like a cartoon drawing of Pig Pen. It just surrounds him like a cloud. Izzy has it too. When we come home from work, come in from working outside, or come in from getting the mail . . . he hears you opening the door and comes running with joy, a happy smile on his face. How does he know it's us? Neither of the dogs bark at me or Dan when we come home, yet they can't see who's at the door. But when strangers come those clever dogs start barking "Alarm! Alarm!" And I know they can't see who it is -- they're across the room!

Poor little Georgie's only drawback is that he has Small Man Syndrome. When Georgie first meets new people, he is always very fearful and worried. He barks and acts half-tough, half-tail-tucked while he's trying to figure out what the New Person is all about.

One of Georgie's favorite pastimes is when we finish a half-rack of pop. When you pull out a can from under the cupboard, and he's there waiting, just in case It's Time. When it's the last can we give him the empty box and he grabs it and runs off with his head in the air, jubilant. He prances around the dining room with it, tripping and stumbling over it the whole way, and then . . . Ding dong, the box is dead! He completely demolishes it, rips it apart, shakes his head from side to side. The poor box never had a chance.

When we take him outside to go to the bathroom, he looks more embarrassed than any other dog I've ever seen. He turns and checks on the progress as it's coming out, which is disgusting and funny at the same time. I don't know if he's fascinated or just can't wait for it to be over. He looks confused, that's for sure.

Georgie could have stood in for Bolt, no questions asked.

Nightmares

Does blogging about your nightmares purge you of them?

I had a doozy the other night, and I can't shake the yucky feeling.

I dreamt we gave our dogs away.

We had three dogs, for some reason. Georgie and Izzy, of course, and a third that actually looks like our neighbor's dog. I'm going to call it Corky for the purpose of this post, because it looked kind of like a Cocker Spaniel (and I'm not going to call it Cocky).

I was holding Corky, but Dan and I had all three dogs with us. And in the dream Dan and I talked seriously about whether or not we should actually have dogs, since we were going to be traveling to Oregon so much. We decided that we couldn't leave them cooped up alone (at this point in the dream, I could see our kitchen/dining room area where we currently keep our dogs). In the dream, we concluded that we should give the dogs away. I was crying.

It was such a horrible dream! Made worse by it's realistic touches. I could see our house, we do travel to Oregon, the dogs are left alone while we're both at work. I woke up heartsick and wondering if we still had Georgie and Izzy (and who the hell "Corky" was).

It's like when a horror movie is "based on true events" . . . that always freaks me out more than blood and guts and things popping out at me. I'm thinking of The Mothman Prophesies here; I'm still traumatized by that movie.

I'm so glad that there's a 3-day weekend coming up and that we can spend lots of time with our wonderful babies!


Look at Izzy's tail!

Montage

On the surface, Ernie looks like a pretty sweet guy. You can hear him purr from across the room, and "whither thou goest, I will go . . . "




That is, unless he's comfy and sleeping in his bed, and you come over and poke him with your cold wet nose. Then, all bets are off.




Even if you don't sniff his butt or lick his ears, just getting a little too close is bad enough. You better not let even one hair of your tail wag in his direction.



Because, he says, this bed is mine, Mine, MINE!



"Muahahahhahaha!"

Poop 1 and Poop 2

Ridonkulous

My new favorite "word" is not a real word, but it's "AWESOME!"

I am not incorrectly "quotation marking" there. I really meant "word" and "AWESOME!" So, I'm "sorry" if you haven't seen Bolt (or Friends). This post, life in general, and almost everything I say or write will make a lot more sense to you if you turn off your computer and go rent all 10 seasons of Friends.

And Bolt too, apparently, since that was the original point of this post.

You better get Dress to Kill while you're at it. I haven't made any references to it, for the moment, but again: life will just be better if you watch it. And if it's a choice between living a better life and living a life sans Friends, well that's a pretty CAKE decision, isn't it? Cake or death!

Sigh. I'm not crazy. Just watch the shows.

So ridonkulous. I love that word! I've heard it used on the radio by a radio announcer, but I'm specifically referring to its usage in Bolt. What a ridonkulously fabulous movie! The hamster Rhino totally grabs your heart. I laughed until I cried!

And Bolt should be played by Georgie when they do the real-life movie remake:

Spaghetti noodles

Our dogs like to chew on cardboard, so there's a lot going on in this photo and it's not very easy to see what's what. Basically, if you look in front of Izzy you can see the container we keep our uncooked spaghetti noodles in. And if you look really carefully, you can see the white screw-on lid is next to the container, not attached to the top as we left it.

Now, Izzy sure has a guilty look on her face, and since the container is in front of her, it's easy to assume that she was the one responsible. But I'm certain the culprit was actually Mr. Innocent (sitting next to her).

I think she only looks guilty because I left her in charge, and she is mortified that she wasn't able to control her ward.

Georgie condemned himeself because he was the one vomiting noodles up later that night.

Me and Georgie

Ode to Tommy Boy

"Look Mommy, the rhino's getting too close to the car!"

"Him too afraid to get out. Him just a little guy!"

Nap time

See Georgie's head in the corner? Izzy and Bunny are sacked out too.

The only one missing from this picture is Blakey; alas, he's not ready for Group Foof Time.

Fun in the sun

Ernie is fitting in nicely!

In this picture, Izzy is just sniffing the ground, and Ernie is sacked out behind her. Silly rabbit!