Watson and I were eager to share this view with Max. I forgot, however, that there are sections of this hike that we only get through if I carry Watson — it gets too steep for even puppies that are half mountain goat. As Max is, well, a little heavier than Watson, this was as far as we could go.
We sat on big rocks and shared a peanut butter sandwich and two apples. The top of an inactive waterfall is nice and all, but not without your friends.
Watson, are you sure you are not an invertebrate?
WHAT DID YOU CALL ME.
But seriously. Can you sit up while we are talking to you?
I CAN’T HEAR YOU. I FOUND A SLEEPY POCKET AND IT IS RIGHT HERE.
It is after 1am and I do not feel the best about my life. I am 9 pages into an 18 page paper and remain uncertain about this argument. Can I really lay claim to the tragic tradition if I mean to read Eliot’s novels as pessimistic, but possibly triumphant? Hamlet ends sort of optimistically? Fortinbras shows up, and takes the crown without blood on his hands. Sorry your dreams are dead, ladies, but you will live on? Except you, Maggie. Sorry, Maggie.
It is also hard to feel cheerful on airport days; it could be my hundredth airport day and I would still mope.
ANYWAY. Things are not great, BUT. I walked into my room ten minutes ago to find Watson and Sharpless napping together in the tousled mess of my unmade bed. Look at them! Sharpless likes me, I think (Conor and I got some purrs this weekend!), but has mostly been sitting under my bed when he feels like hanging out. This seems like a promising development in their hilarious friendship. Thanks for staying up with me, babies. I appreciate it.
Maybe I should be doing laundry or writing about Victorian conceptions of tragedy or transitioning my closet to Spring, but DOG PLAY DATE. LOOK AT THEIR FACES.
Little Watson, toasty and clean from the dryer*, sleeping on my knees because, what? that’s comfortable for everyone (no, no it is not).
*I am kidding. Watson gets washed on the “delicates” setting and is then air dried by the ears alongside my nice sweaters.
A snowy morning — the first one I’ve had in New Mexico all winter long (I missed the December storm).
I looked at my pretty frozen garden and Watson ate some snow.
So you’re still crate trained.
OF COURSE I AM. DON’T INSULT ME.
Hey, remember last week when you peed on my blanket?
IT WAS SATURDAY NIGHT. WE WERE SUPPOSED TO CUDDLE.
Hey, remember two weeks ago when you peed on my blanket?
WE WERE SUPPOSED TO CUDDLE.
Sorry, buddy. I know. How about we only use the crate if I go out on weekend evenings? The rest of the time it’s here as your third bed in this room?
I CAN CATCH POPCORN MID-AIR.
Fair point.
WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
Reading The Mill on the Floss.
IS IT GOOD?
Very.
BETTER THAN PEANUT BUTTER?
About the same.
WAIT YOU CAN EAT BOOKS?!
Well, you can eat them with your brain.
UGH, YOU ARE THE WORST.
Watson and I have been playing hide and seek for a while, but he’s figured out most of the spots in the house. It’s less seeking and more checking, which is not nearly as fun.
Here we have hide and seek: mountain version.
This is our favorite place to listen to Beethoven, John Luther Adams, and the wind.
Watson reluctantly takes pictures with me in exchange for afternoons getting gross and dusty.
