Today i woke up and i read a magazine.  that's all i've done so far. i did read an entire magazine cover-to-cover mind you, which actually takes a few hours-- but still -- that's it. 

It takes this kind of exaggerated slow down of a day to prove to myself that i am on vacation.  I first have to test the relaxation waters by dipping my entire body into a hammock for 5 hours to see if anyone will ask me to do something or call so-and-so.  If no one does, I know it's safe to come out of my hyper-vigilant mind, and have a vacation.

I did, however, miss the dogs today.   You remember Grover and Falcor (pictured below).  While Falcor has grown to "almost Grover size," he remains a puppy on the inside.  It is alternating cutedorable and imgonnakillthatfucker.  But the week before we set off for our island adventure, Falcor started to really get into a cute-groove. 

See, we've had this chicken (pictured below) that has decided to live at our house.  More specifically, this chicken, whom our neighbors named Steve (ironically i hope), has decided to roost in the space between my wife's Subaru's front windsheild and the engine.  And i gotta hand it to Steve.  It's a pretty sweet place to set up camp.  Elevated, 360 view, and there IS kinda a notch in the car where she sat, as if it were designed for a chicken to sit.  

I did not mention any of these feelings to my wife.  She, understandably, was not as Rock-em-Sock-em Robots excited about Steve's chosen sleeping bag.  The problem was that Steve is obviously someone's chicken, because she's totally cool with humans.   As in, you can't shoo Steve off a car hood.  (Turns out you could pick her up and place her down elsewhere.  And she could get herself right back up on that car.)  One time, Grover decided to shoo Steve off the Subaru.   Turns out, when a 60 pound pitbull jumps up on a car hood next to a chicken -- that chicken hauls ass.  My wife was even LESS pleased by all of this, understandably once again.  The only reason Flacor hasn't lept up there yet (and let me tell you -- this pup can flat out sky!  Pictured below casing Steve from inside the house  -- he not only jumps up on that slick table-- but he sticks the landing [most of the time]). 

Anyhoo -- im getting side tracked.  All of this is to say that the past week has been a bunch of laughs and snuggles and fuzzy smiles.  And i miss them.  So i thought i'd write about them being shitheads to make myself feel better.  Enjoy. 

Grover is a cow dog.  hang an utter on that boy and he could get mistaken for a smiling calf (we plan to test this theory during  an upcoming Halloween).  he also is pretty chill like a cow.  loves to sleep, loves to eat, big brown eyes.  he's a real good dog.  But even real good dogs have bad days. 

im in my hiding place below the window and porch. Dad, you can't see me.

This particular bad day my wife and i decided to go to a celebratory meal at our favorite restaurant Chez Albert (really we call every visit a celebration, cause it feels that way).   We had wined (and old-fashioned) and dined each other and were literally laughing like those couples do in the movies when they open their front door (filmed from the inside) laughing and carrying on mid-sentence only to be interrupted by a robbery, a dead body, a gunman-- you get me.  Well, wifey and I swing open our door mid laugh to be interrupted by . . . . a cute, semi-ashamed looking puppy wagging his tail.  Oh hi grover  . . .hi hi cutey dog  . . .your such a . . . .

"BAD DOG!!!," comes shouting from the interior room.  It is the wife, and she is not pleased.   Grover has torn open the garbage, filled with moldy strawberries and bagels, and proceed to cut at or rip open everything that bag contained.  Then it got a little scarier.  A bottle of my anti-depressants laid chewed open on the floor.  Crap.  Crap crap crap.  I knew the bottle wa almost empty, but with 6 pills laying on the floor, i couldn't be sure exactly how many there were.  Thankfully, i do know that they taste like crap.  If you stuck one in your mouth, even for a second, i tastes like a combination of chalk and lemon zest sucking the moisture from you. 

But what the hell do i know from dogs and anti-depressants.  Apparently Grover was having a REALLY bad day.  I never thought it would come to this though.  I called the  24-hour vet clinic, and they directed me to the Animal version of the Poison Control Center.  You know, the place where you call if your 7 year old son consumed 40 some vitamin pills when you were on the phone (sorry mom).  We called the animal version.  The first thing you hear is that for any consultation it will cost you $45.  Period.  To offset the cost of them existing.  I was a bit stunned by this, but considering i was worried that something was going to explode my first pet from the inside a la Aliens, i stayed on the line.  I mean, they are pet people. Pet people are good people.

The first thing the women says as she comes on the line is that they will have to charge me the 45 dollars.  (this kinda pisses me off) I say ok.  She asks what the problem is.  I tell her my dog has ingested X amount-ish of drug X.  She says -- im serious.  She says, "Ok, i'm going to type this into my database to see if you should be taking your animal to the vet clinic or not, but before that can i please have the credit card number that you'll be using to pay the $45 fee. 

That is not being good people.  That's not even being a very good animal person.  Before I check to see if every minute is currently crucial to your animals survival, what was the 3 digit security code on the back of your card.  Fuck them.  That's total bullshit.  I realize now, after the panic of my impending dog's death receded, that i probably could have gotten comparable (but less expensive) advice from the internet.   Maybe that's what they are capitalizing on.  Or perhaps they are geniusly trying to replace your worry about your animals survival with fury towards them.  Mission complete. 

The same day our neighbor reported that Falcor at a roadkill chipmunk on their walk. 

frog dog

The next morning, i had this note waiting for me from the ball and chain. 

full monty = pee'd and poop'd

(if your eye's aren't good this is what the note says:  Both full Monty @10am.  Fed.  Some one threw up on the new bed @6:30am and I somehow pried a whole dead rabbit out of Falcor's mouth.  So that happened.  Going to gym <3 E)
 

So i miss those guys.   But only 98% of the time.

family nap (falcor is reading between wife and grover)