Visiting the Fatherland. Arrrr!

Last weekend, Matthew and I took a major risk. Matthew had the very rare Sunday off and we had been wanting to get away for the weekend (especially as we wanted to celebrate, like the lame romantics we are, the closing of our first year together). But of course, we have a sweet little puppy (read: destructive monster) who wanted to accompany us. My mom thought it was a great idea. My chiropractor told me she wouldn't dream of taking a puppy on a trip. We decided to take the chance.

We had a lot of places in mind. I wanted to go to the Isle of Wight until I heard someone describe it as the Pile of Shite. We tossed around ideas of Cornwall, Devon, and even Somerset. Ideally, we wanted a beach so we could introduce our Portuguese Water Dog to a proper body of water (instead of the glorified mud puddles in Richmond park). Ultimately, we landed on the beautiful medieval city of Rye, the land of my ancestors.

Yes, the Nichols family, in all its glory, is (allegedly) descended from Rye "pirates." I have told this to many people and am learning that, should this story be true, my ancestors were very unlikely to have been pirates but were probably smugglers instead. Rye was known for its smugglers, and I have been told that many of the houses in Rye actually have connected attics, which would make escape easier for smugglers, should they be found out by the authorities. It is for this reason that for the whole of our time in Rye, I was imagining my ancestors...er, heroically crawling through tiny attic spaces in a panicked attempt to flee the police. Perhaps more than one of those righteous men from whom I descended met their end at the gallows...which is why I didn't bother looking for Nichols headstones in the cemetery. My ancestors were probably not allowed churchyard burial.

Awesome.

Our time in Rye was wet but fantastic. We stayed at a dog-friendly hotel called the Flackley-Ash (incidentally not in Rye but the neighboring village of Peasmarsh). The staff seemed to like our Moose, and didn't seem to mind when we left him in the room (in his travel kennel, of course) while we went to breakfast (a heart-friendly affair consisting of butter-soaked fried mushrooms, fried tomatoes, fried potatoes, fried eggs, beans, and various fried meats and sausages), to float around in the pool, or to sweat out our vices in the steam room.

You might be surprised to find out that Moose was an absolute star on our trip. That's right. He didn't pee in the room, bark at the other guests, or destroy the furniture. His tendency toward carsickness may not have made any move toward improvement, but otherwise he was on his best behavior. I suspect this may have had something to do with the fact that we took him on very long walks every day. We dragged him through Rye, let him run free on Camber Sands (where he became thoroughly wet and sandy), and gave him the historical tour of the battlefield of the Battle of Hastings. We even took him to the museum.

Matthew and I had a nice time as well. For us, life in London can get a little monotonous. Sure, I get to wander off into Richmond Park for an hour every day and Matthew surely has a blast commuting into the city to research stuff. But it was such a nice change of pace for us to escape to the seaside for a weekend. In fact, I have basically decided that we are going to move to Rye. As soon as we have a million pounds or so with which to purchase a house. So any day now, really.

Unfortunately, all good weekends have to come to an end, and ours ended promptly as we walked through our front door and watched as our little weekend angel ran straight for his special corner and peed on Matthew's piano. Three times. Yeah, we are still working on the house training thing but I swear we are making progress. We're hoping for full potty training by the time he is six...years old. I mean six months.

Heh, I'll bet Matthew's family is soooo excited to be hosting little Moose for Christmas, right? And I? Well, I don't feel even a little bit guilty for ditching my two loves to go home for the holidays. Good luck, suckers!

Why Lera is Thankful, Even Though She Hasn't Stuffed Her Face...

It's coming up on 7.00 PM here in London and I am not full. Actually, I am pretty damn hungry. Today I ate a bowl of cereal, an apple, and a chocolate cupcake. This is not some kind of radical diet (although I will admit that last year's cupcake and wine diet did wonders--really--for my waistline). No, this general lack of food, even on America's great feasting holiday, is merely the function of being too busy to eat.

I have to admit that I completely forgot about Thanksgiving. I had considered making a pumpkin pie, and was certainly going to make a trip to Waitrose to see if I could stock up on tins of pumpkin. But then I forgot. I had to clean the house, walk the dog, pack for the weekend...I spaced it!

But I did have a nice surprise during my daily walk through Richmond Park. Moose, in all of his adorableness, started a conversation with a nice American couple. Yes, the conversation was littered with a few demands on my part that Moose stop jumping up on his new friends. But it also involved a very warm, very surprising wish of a Happy Thanksgiving.

It got me thinking. Is it really Thanksgiving if I don't spend the whole day cooking a meal that will later make me feel ill? Is it Thanksgiving without the pies? The traditional Nichols family cheese grits? The drunken cranberries (which I hate but always put on my plate and ignore)?

I think my answer is no. Thanksgiving is stupid.

But that doesn't mean that I have not spent at least part of today thinking about what it is that I am thankful for. I am thankful, first and foremost, for having a wonderful, loving family. And I am thankful that even though it is painful to be away from my family, I HAVE a family to miss. I am thankful for the most wonderful boyfriend, best friend, and partner anyone could ever have. And I am thankful for Moose, even though he makes life a little more...er...colorful than usual. I am also thankful that my other baby, my darling doggie, Lander, is being well looked after by my parents. I am thankful for wonderful friends, wonderful opportunities, and the wonderful days that have made up this past year.

Thanksgiving IS a stupid holiday. But I will admit that it isn't stupid to take some time to think about the good things. There are a lot of good things in my life.

So for all of you who ARE eating an insane amount of food today: Happy Thanksgiving. Enjoy your meal. Don't drink too much!

And I love you all.

FLB

OK, I'm not gonna lie to you. Moose is a furry little bastard. I say this in the best way possible, mind. Really, I love my puppy, and I think he adds a lot to my life. Namely, he forces me to get off of my duff and walk for at least two hours a day (read: work off the beer gut I have developed sitting around London with no job and a very close, very yummy local pub). But when it really comes down to it Moose really is as I described. Furry. Little. Bastard.

The first time I came to this conclusion was about two weeks ago when Moose peed on the floor five times and pooped on it twice. And not all on the wood floor, either. The dog knows perfectly well that we would prefer him to adjourn his bodily excretions to the outdoors and yet he does it inside on occasion. It's not to spite us, I think, but rather just to exercise a little bit of independence and power. He is not a dominant creature, you see, but has a glint of adventure in his eyes...

The second time I really noticed the FLB in him was when he got thoroughly muddy in the park (OH, he is super excited about water in the park!) and then proceeded to bite, claw and bark his way out of the bathtub, to the extent that our carpeted bathroom was like a pool and my arms were scratched like a chicken coop. Bastard!

And then there was this evening. Oh yes, the FLB knows how to make a stressful evening that much better. I shall set the scene. This evening Matthew's uncle was scheduled to visit. I have known this all week but I held off on cleaning the house until the last minute because let's face it, I have a fourteen week old puppy whose purpose in life is to make a grand mess. I will admit, I left things a little too long. Look, the new Twilight movie came out today and I had to spend two hours gawking at rather well-built teenage boys with the other young women of Richmond, right? And oh, the abs on those guys... Ah, but anyway! I made a quick stop at the grocery store on the way home and remembered that Matthew was out of milk for his coffee, so I bought I pint. I would like to call this a rookie mistake but I knew better than to put the groceries on the sofa (which I did) and to leave Moose unattended (I confess) while I went to start cleaning the kitchen.

You don't really feel too bad for me, I suppose? Even when I tell you that Moose chewed little holes into the pint of milk, which then allowed milk (my nemesis) to be spilled all over the sofa? Yeah, I deserved it. But it doesn't mean that he isn't a furry little bastard!

Because then I took him upstairs while I made the guest room bed. And you know what? That FLB proceeded to pee not only on the floor but on the duvet, which I had (stupidly) put on the floor while I was putting the sheets on the bed.

And because after that (while the sofa cover and the duvet were in the wash), he greeted Uncle Mark by peeing on the floor! Again! Welcome, Mark!

BASTARD! Furry little BASTARD!

But then look at him there in his kennel. Look at him curled up and peaceful, looking up at me with his little doggy eyes. He's so sweet. He's so soft. He so...damn it...

He's soooo cuuuuute.

Teetotaling: An Essay on Restraint

All of you real child parents are going to roll your eyes at yet another child-puppy comparison but you are going to have to bear with me. As a puppy-momma and not a baby-momma (knock on wood and fingers crossed for that remaining my reality), I have no choice but to compare my furry situation to yours. Whatever. All parents know that there is no greater gift in the world than a visit from the grandparents. The elusive but highly prized grandparent visit provides even puppy parents with the wonders of free day care, extra puppy training, and date night.

Enter Gmom and Boompa, the homeless wanderers who came all the way from Jackson, Wyoming to meet their granddog.

And to go to the pubs, of course.

They met Moose during a rare moment of Moosey good behavior, and fell in love with our little angel. "Remember," they said, "he IS just a typical puppy. He's really very sweet." "Aha," said I. "He is only tricking you into complacency so later he can bite your toes, attack your computer cable, and walk off with your shoes (which he will then hide under the table and demolish, like a bully who has stolen your school lunch)."

The denying grandparents spent their first day on Moose duty, happily doting on their newest grandpuppy and teaching him new tricks, like how to manipulate his way into yet another snack. They also met me at the Red Cow (Pub #1) for a lunchtime sharpener (as Matthew's boss refers to a workday pint) and then the White Horse (Pub #2), which stands only about 300 feet from our house, for dinner. Did I tell you that I love hanging out with Gmom and Boompa?

Their second day in town saw two major revelations: Gmom and Boompa were introduced to Richmond Park and Moose was introduced to the largest needle either of us has ever seen. Moose's final puppy vaccinations were administered that day, and with those came the dreaded microchip, which was injected into the flesh behind his shoulder blades with a needle as big as, I shit you not, a knitting needle. I mean, this thing was MASSIVE and would have had me hiding in the woods somewhere and refusing to come out. Not that I have ever done that or anything...

Naturally, Moose wanted to sleep all afternoon so we took advantage of his early morning stabbing and went to Richmond Park. We saw deer. And then Gmom had to pee so we went to find the loo. We saw trees. And then Gmom had to pee so we went to find the loo. We saw ponds, cranes, and a looming rainstorm. And then Gmom had to pee so we gave up on the park and went to find the pub (The Dysart Arms, Pub #3 and honestly the least comfortable pub in the entire world).

It was still raining after the weirdo pub visit (I mean, really, what kind of a pub doesn't serve crisps? Or nuts?), Matthew had to run off to Claygate to do something musical and intelligent, so we did the thing that comes most naturally to us. We went to the Marlborough (Pub #4) for dinner. Yum. We also stole a pint glass, but you didn't hear that from me.

Of course, after all that pubbing, Gmom once again had to pee. So you don't have to have much of an imagination to deduce that we found toilet relief (not to mention a couple of pints) at the White Cross (Pub #5), which sits in an ideal location right on the Thames.

The third day of their visit was...oh God, I don't remember most of it. I think we probably played with Moose. I may have had some coffee. I know we went to Borough Market. And then Matthew and I went wine tasting for three hours while Gmom and Boompa went back to Richmond to liberate the Moose from his Moosery. Very kind of them.

After the wine tasting, Matthew and I (in the company of one of Matthew's brothers and his wife) ended up at another pub (Pub #6). Meanwhile, Gmom and Boompa ended up at one called the Mad Hatter (also Pub #6). Somewhere in there we had dinner, somewhere in there we went to another pub (Pub #7), and somewhere in there I may or may not have started singing and giggling on the train.

Day four was a day of penance. Once again, poor little Moose spent the day in jail while we collectively paid for our sins in a church marathon. We gathered at St John the Divine to hear Matthew play the organ at the service (and to whisper gossip about the congregants). Later, we gathered at St Paul's Covent Garden to hear Matthew play the organ for the Evensong service (and to sing hymns in fake opera voices and make fun of Boompa as he slept). The day of solemn worship, of course, ended in a pub (Pub #8) and dinner at the best Thai restaurant ever, our favorite, Patara. Mmm.

Day five was my personal crowning glory. The day started with Moose's first ever walk! I strapped on his cute little collar and we went for a nice walk down my street, toward the White Horse. As soon as the White Horse came into view, Moose pulled on the leash, broke through the collar, and ran like a meat-covered shoe was waiting for him just around the corner. I caught him, but I'll be damned if I didn't come close to wetting myself out of motherly terror.

Once the Moose was once again detained, we went to the Natural History Museum to look at the Wildlife Photographer of the Year exhibit (always good). We visited the hall porter at our old flat and drank Gingerbread lattes and ate bananas. And then...a pub. Only this didn't turn out so well.

We went to the Jerusalem Tavern, one of London's tiniest and cutest pubs (Pub #9, if you're still counting). Matthew left work to meet us there. And yet...it wasn't serving food. Boo. So we adjourned to The Olde Mitre (Pub #10), another cute and adorable pub. And yet...no food. BOO! So Matthew gave up on our pub crawl and went back to work like a good little boy while Gmom, Boompa, and a seriously annoyed and hungry Lera went to the Black Friar (Pub #11), one of our favorite and most consistent pubs. Success!

You see where this is going, don't you? The end of day five, the night before Gmom and Boompa had to fly back to Wyoming? Incidentally also the day Moose decided to run for freedom right in front of our neighborhood pub?

You guessed it. The White Horse for dinner. Pub # 12. But here is the kicker. The White Horse is dog friendly, so we brought our little fuzz ball to the pub (Pub #1 for Moosey), where he was welcomed with a bowl of water and a biscuit. Moose was very helpful to us! The wait staff loved him, which helped us get our drinks swiftly. He also helped us with the pub quiz (well, he helped and so did Boompa's Google-equipped mobile phone), and led us to second place! Woohoo!

OK, so it was a big weekend for us. Even though Moose spent much of his weekend in jail, he still had a grand old time. He survived the microchip. He tasted freedom, if only for a few brief seconds. He visited his first (and surely not last) pub. He was renamed Lord Moosely Mooserton of Moosechestershire (don't ask, just go with it). And, most importantly, he gave Gmom and Boompa a reason to come back. And soon.

We had fun, G and B! Cheers!

I Told You Not to Eat the Wallpaper

I have to share this.

We have been stripping wallpaper and painting our living room for quite some time now. Moose clearly has caught on to the fact that the paper on the wall is supposed to come off, and just this evening decided to help us by ripping the paper off and taking it away to chew on it.

This dog is going to get poisoned, for sure.

But the greatest thing ever just happened. Moose just sneezed wallpaper all over Matthew. I mean it. He sneezed and wallpaper, not snot, came flying out.

I love having a puppy. Now if I can just stop laughing soon so I don't pee in my pants...

Everybody Poops...and Other Stories

Poop.

We all do it. It's completely natural. And it is...the most interesting topic in the whole world.

You parents know what I am talking about. So do you medical/EMT/doctor types. The rest of you are just going to take my word for it.

The thing is that when it comes to babies and fur babies alike, the topic, nay, the very object becomes a matter of incredible importance. When it comes to the fur baby, there is a very fine line between poop in the yard and poop on the floor, and another fine line between the easy to pick up and the...well...the opposite.

It is for this reason that our neighbors have, for the last two weeks, been subjected to endless hours (including wee ones) filled with anxious puppy parents' pleas: "Do your thing! Get it done! Go on, Moose, poop! I know you need it! Poop for Mommy! Poop for Daddy!"

Our poor neighbors. Oh well, I am starting to consider it payback for the fact that their English Ivy (poisonous to dogs) has completely overtaken our garden.

It is not just Moose's various bodily functions that have his parents endlessly concerned. Like all new parents, we have become acutely aware of the many nasties that are waiting for our fur baby: electrical wires, wet paint, hard floors, non-organic puppy food. We do our best to protect our little darling but sometimes he simply goes astray.

Like the time that he jumped up on a newly painted wall and tracked painty, puppy paw prints all over our house.

And the time he peed on the front mat (twice), the back mat (twice), and ate part of the broom, all in about three horror-filled minutes.

And the time he jumped out of my arms, backflipped mid-air, and landed right on his head on the hard wood floor.

This last one led to a very important milestone for the fur baby: Doggie's first visit to the chiropractor. Yes, the chiropractor. My chiropractor, currently my employer and a fellow dog-lover, heard the story about poor Moose's rapid, head-first descent to the floor, and suggested that I bring him by for an adjustment. And, lo and behold, poor Moose had a vertebra in his neck out of place! Just a...little...adjustment...and all is well!

Nothing is too good for our Moose*.

After such a busy week of being begged to poo, getting dropped on the floor, and licking paint off of walls, Moose needed a vacation. Scratch that. Moose's parents needed a vacation. So we loaded the Moose into the Renault Clio (trusty beast that it is) and set off for Matthew's parents' house in Somerset. This was to be Moose's first meeting with one set of grandparents, his first meeting with the chickens that Matthew's mother keeps, and his first meeting with Dylan, the evil black kitty that stalks around the house and ambushes unsuspecting visitors with a quick paw and sharp claws.

The visit also offered Moose a taste of something he has not yet been afforded here in the Big Smoke: freedom! Because Moose is not yet fully vaccinated, he has not been allowed outside except for the relative (though Ivy-spiked) safety of our garden. In two weeks, he will be allowed on real walks, but for now he has to be kept on house-arrest. Except in Somerset, where we decided that the risk of disease was relatively low.

Moose loved it. Although his first experience walking outside on a leash was...er...less than successful, his new-found freedom was a revelation for him. And for us.

Because when Moose has his freedom, he gets lots of exercise. A well-exercised Moose is easily tired. An easily tired Moose doesn't bite Mommy's ankles. Or try to eat chairs. Or run around the kitchen like an ADHD kid off his Ritalin.

Bliss.

Needless to say, we will be visiting Somerset more often. And we will be counting the days until Moose has all of his vaccines and can finally be freed from our tiny patio garden.

I'm sure our neighbors look forward to Moose's future walks. And we will definitely enjoy talking about Moose poop in new and exciting places, where we can pick it up immediately and stand a fighting chance of not stepping in it in the middle of the night.

*My attorney says I need to clear my name here and make note of the fact that Moose's chiropractic treatment was free. There. Now I don't feel so WASPy.

Piranhamoose!

Ba dum.......ba dum.......badumbadumbadumbadumbadum.

An uneasy silence falls over the house. Palms sweat. Ears prick. Mouths dry. Something is here. Something...just around the corner. Lurking. Waiting.

Gah! @#$%uelahlfhn!!! I'm being attacked! It's eating my face! It's eating my...faaaaaaaaaaace!

*silence*

Oh. Nevermind. It's just Moose.

Or is it?

We came to a conclusion today. The breeder made a mistake. We drove all the way to Lincolnshire to buy a dog but as it turns out, we are fairly certain that the breeder sold us a furry piranha. Furry piranhas may not be native to England but surely we have one.

Today the eaten list is as follows:

1. Lera's hair

2. Lera's face

3. Lera's neck

4. Lera's notebook

5. Lera's jeans pocket

6. Lera's bum (or parts of it, anyway)

6. The Good Guide to Dog Friendly Pubs

7. John Adams biography

Things not eaten:

1. Moose's rawhide bone

2. Moose's hedgehog

3. Moose's dog

4. Moose's sausage dog

5. Moose's bacon-like dog treat

6. Anything of Matthew's

OK, OK, we kid a little bit. Moose is doing well. He sleeps mostly all the way through the night, he (usually) waits to go outside before he relieves himself, and he makes up for all transgressions with an adorable puppy face and a kiss.

He even survived his first trip to the vet yesterday, during which he had to ride on a London bus all the way to Roehampton. He did well, and the trip to the vet was well worth it. In fact, the vet alerted us to a dangerous new parasite, the French Lungworm, which is causing doggie deaths all over South London and is transmitted through snails and slugs! Since Moose has made something of a hobby of eating the snails and slugs in our yard, it was a very good thing that he got the treatment for it right away.

So far having a piranha...puppy has been a joy on all levels. Moose is a real sweetheart and has already squirmed, whined, and bitten his way into our tender hearts. We love him... even if he is determined to be the destroyer of the earth and the heavens.

A Quick Blog Before Moose Eats the Living Room

We have a Moose! A sweet, cuddly, baby Moose! After much anticipation, Saturday saw the two of us setting off in the trusty Renault Clio to Lincolnshire, where our new canine buddy was waiting for us to bring him to his new home. I was basically peeing myself with excitement, but Matthew reminded me that soon Moose would be doing enough peeing for all of us, so I contained myself as best as I could.

The long drive to Lincolnshire was interrupted by a planned lunch stop. We ended up in the (ahem) lovely oasis of Huntingdon, where we had to search for the pub recommended to us in the 2006 Good Pub Guide. We learned a couple things during this little outing. First of all, combining a town's main parking lot with a grocery store parking lot is a bad idea, particularly on Saturday afternoons. As a result, we found ourselves in perhaps the most vicious battle for space ever known to man. We prevailed, however, when a departing shopper not only gave us her parking space but also the remaining time on her parking slip. Success! Second, despite the fact that the BlackBerry really is God's gift to the internet obsessed and directionally challenged, Google Maps is not infallible. For the third time in just a few weeks, I found myself following mystifying Google directions, despite the fact that I knew that they made no sense. And Matthew, who knows me well enough to know that I believe my BlackBerry is omniscient, allowed me to follow my devil-phone until I was hungry and frustrated enough to concede defeat. At which point Matthew led us directly to the pub.

Stupid men and their sense of direction.

I still love my BlackBerry.

Back to the story, though. Our lunch was lovely, though of course my caesar salad came with lovely eggs on top, which looked so enticing that for the second time in a week I found myself confirming that I am, in fact, allergic to them. Boo. Soon enough, we found ourselves back on track and speeding through the Fens toward Moose.

The Fens are seriously bleak. Like Iowa. It's not exactly a boring drive, although there is certainly not a lot to see. What saves the region from being truly bleak is the rumor (I say rumor because I haven't taken the time to confirm the details) that it is all drained, reclaimed marshland. Which explains why it is so flat. The roads are also incredibly wild--narrow, winding, and usually lined by deep, wide ditches on either side. We were even treated to the sight of a car upside-down in one of these ditches. Sweet.

About three hours in the car, a half a can of Texas BBQ Pringles, and a good dose of Radiohead later, we arrived at Nut Walk Farm, the original Moose lair. Rachael Reddin and her mother were waiting for us (we were, after all, almost an hour late) with Moose, who was clean, brushed, and hyper!

Actually, I had been dreading taking the poor puppy away from his mother and litter. I know it is a really human thing to feel guilty about something like this. After all, he won't remember it after a short while, and Lord knows that Moose is going to have a fantastic life with Matthew and me. But look, I AM human, so I think I deserve just a little bit of understanding when I admit that I was feeling sad about stealing Moose away from his Mommy. Moose didn't seem to be too bothered by the whole thing. He was bouncing about the room lightheartedly, and took to the toy hedgehog that we brought for him like it was his new best friend.

Rachael and her mother seemed to agree with our initial assessment of Moose. They told us that if they had been planning to keep one of the puppies for breeding, it would be Moose. He is a beautiful, sweet dog, I must say. Although he was being a little horror, as Rachael put it, when we came to get him (he was running around like a kid on caffeine and bonked his head on every substantial object in the room), he is actually pretty calm most of the time.

This was made particularly apparent on our three hour drive home. I should point out for those in the know that Moose's trip home was considerably less dramatic than certain other doggies' trips. There was no whining, we didn't get a flat, and we certainly didn't end up on fire on the side of the road in the middle of Idaho. No, Moose's trip went off without a hitch. Until, that is, he vomited all over his crate. Thanks, Moose!

Since our arrival at home, Moose has settled in very well. He is, on some levels, incredibly adaptable. He has one spot in the backyard where he likes to do his business. This spot, unfortunately, happens to be the place where we put an old doormat. Thankfully this mat is not right outside the door and was sitting on the patio while we figured out what to do with it! He also has taken very well to his crate and often just goes in there to sleep. As I write, he is quietly sitting in his crate, and he has been for more than an hour!

He is not the perfect angel. Not yet. Thus far this evening he has peed on the floor (only about five minutes after he peed outside), done laps around the living room, and continued in his mission to eat the dining room table. I suspect that left unchecked, he could actually get pretty far on that goal. Those teeth are damn sharp!

Matthew and I are enjoying having our puppy, though we are both looking forward to sleeping through the night and not having 6:00 AM wake up calls! Yeah, yeah, I know that those of you with tiny preemie infants are crying a river for me at this very moment. But damn it, on Friday morning I slept until 11 and then wandered downstairs to watch Gilmore Girls, Deadliest Catch, and Ice Road Truckers before getting any kind of meaningful start on my day. And before that I was sleeping in, wandering to one lecture a day, and then studying in the Rad Cam for a few hours before going to the pub. This is a shock to the system.

Welcome to our lives, Moose. We love you already.

But freaking sleep in once in a while, won't you?

It's A Dog!

Have we ever told you the story about how Lera is a Slovakian immigrant in disguise? Well, it’s true. Some months ago, after church, a member of the congregation asked her, “Now, Lera, where exactly are you from?” Lera replied, “Wyoming,” and received a blank stare. So she clarified, “In the States.” And was thereby met with the most unexpected response. The congregant cleared his throat, embarrassed, and explained that he had thought that she was from Eastern Europe, perhaps Slovakia. In fact, despite the fact that he and Lera had had several short conversations over the course of months, he actually had been under the impression that English was not her first language.

The sad thing about this story is that it has happened more than once. Apparently lots of people think that Lera is Eastern European.

We tell you this story because it is important that you understand that misconceptions are a big part of the lives of Lera and Matthew. Especially, as it turns out, at church.

The congregation is slowly beginning to learn that their beloved organist has left Oxford, has moved to Richmond (into a house only about five minutes’ walk from the church), and that (scandal?) Lera has moved in with him. We don’t think the congregation really minds this fact, and it certainly is not a secret we have been trying to keep. Matthew recently invited the choir to come over to the house in a few weeks for lunch and to meet the new puppy. Lera hasn’t actually seen this email but she is pretty sure that he specifically did say puppy, not new addition, not newest family member, not baby.

So why is it that there seems to be a small miscommunication about the puppy part?

We would like to announce this formally, for clarity’s sake: our new addition, our new family member, our baby…is a DOG. Lera’s three month absence from church was the result of final exams, her retreat to Somerset, and a month of vacation in the States. Her relative roundness upon her return is the result of too much beer and enormous American portions. Her rosy cheeks and healthy complexion are the result of no longer being a stressed, pale, panicky, Oxford student. Lera is not, was not, and frankly never has been pregnant.

It’s a dog. A baby dog.

That’s not to say that Lera and Matthew don’t intend to be the proudest, most doting puppy parents EVER. They spent Saturday exploring Pets at Home and loading up on awesome puppy loot. Moose now is the proud owner of a leash and collar! Food bowls! Toys! Bones! And most importantly, a nice, new, shiny kennel, “The Moosery,” which will be a comfy, Moosey lair for our sweet, Moosey boy (read: DOG).

Tonight, in a parallel Slovakian universe, Valera Nicholsovna downs a glass of vodka, listens to her man play a hymn to the Motherland on the accordion, and rocks her baby to sleep in his bureau drawer.

In this comparatively dull universe, Lera watches “The Dog Whisperer” on TV, wonders if Moose will like freeze-dried liver pieces, and vows to improve her English once and for all. Perhaps she will use Rosetta Stone.

The Search for Moose

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away (at the very end of London's District Line), lived an adorable young couple. The pair, Matthew and Lera, were terribly lonely because no one but the bravest of friends (like Danielle and Caroline) would come to visit them in the distant land. Even though Matthew and Lera lived next to two awesome pubs. And a super-sweet park. In their sadness, Matthew and Lera decided that it was time to find a friend who would take them to the park, go with them to the pubs, and systematically help them get rid of their too-many belongings.

They needed a moose.

No, scratch that. They needed a dog. A dog named Moose.

And so the hunt began. Their journey took them to Cambridgeshire, to Lincolnshire, and to the Peterborough Pizza Express. Finally, after hours of searching in the deepest, darkest, English countryside, the pair landed at Nut Walk Farm: the lair of the Moose.

Weary from their journey...oh, forget it, this fairytale narration is nonsense. We ended up at Nut Walk Farm yesterday afternoon, though don't ask us how we got there because we don't know. We had been in touch with Rachael Reddin, a Portuguese Water Dog breeder (who, incidentally, also couldn't tell you how to get to Nut Walk Farm, despite it being her home), since last March. Her recent litter was born on August 17, so we got to spend the afternoon playing with six five-week-old puppies. Three of them had already been spoken for, though of course none of the puppies will leave the litter until October 12. One of the puppies was tiny--about half the size of his brothers and sisters--and won't be available to take home until he gets bigger. So we had the pick of two puppies--a boy and a girl.

There are a lot of people who offer advice on how to pick a puppy. Someone told us to let the puppy choose us. Cesar Millan says that one should choose the dog with the right energy. Someone else told us not to choose the puppy that walks right up to us, nor the one that hangs back, but the one who waits patiently for its turn. Since we only had two puppies to choose from, we chose the Cesar Millan method.

Because Lera already has a Portuguese Water Dog, a three-year old male, who may or may not ever make the trip to England, it was recommended to us that we get a female, so the two dogs would get along. That said, the moment Rachael brought out the two puppies, it was clear which one was meant to be our new friend.

The puppies had just woken up, so they spent their first few minutes with us groggily stumbling around and slipping on the hard wood floor. The little boy was the first to approach us, but he did so slowly and calmly. The little girl, however, excitedly romped around the room for a little while before approaching us. If memory serves correctly, she approached Lera first and proceeded to use Lera's arm as a tasty chew toy. She also may have peed on Lera but we won't hold that against her.

Both puppies (and in fact, their brothers and sisters) were adorable. They were all silky, black, wavy-haired Porties. At just five weeks old, they were still very small--smaller than an American football. Their eyes were bluish (though they will turn dark) and bright, and they had sharp (!!!), tiny teeth, and puppy breath. Their mother was pretty, energetic, and apparently had been doing a great job mothering her pups. Their father was GORGEOUS. He was muscular, noble, and had the sleekest, silkiest, black hair. These are clearly well-bred dogs.

We had a lovely afternoon meeting the puppies, but only one of them could be our Moose. We chose the little boy, since his energy seemed to match ours well. He was playful and happy but was also mellow, patient, and respectful. He reminded us of Lera's dog, Lander, if not slightly more laid-back.

Our new buddy will not be coming to us at our home at the end of the District Line until he is eight weeks old. We expect to bring him home on October 11, although it is possible that we will have to wait another week due to Matthew's schedule.

On the to do list until then: Find a veterinarian. Buy a kennel and a dog bed. Get food and bowls for food and water. Get toys. Say a tearful goodbye to sleeping through the night, at least for the first few weeks.

For now, the hunt for Moose has ended. And now we wait.