Happy Mooseday!

Er...remember how I said about two months ago that I was going to be more regular about updating the MooseBlog? Right, sorry about that. What I meant, apparently, was that I was going to drop off the face of the planet, stop updating, ignore emails, and generally fail to exist as any kind of normal correspondent or friend. But look, people, I'm planning a wedding. I'm working full time. I herniated a disc in my back. My sister came to visit. I...

Oh, forget it. I'm a bad blogger.

But look what I was doing instead of blogging! I was busy baking Moosecakes! Yes, that's right. The darling puppy had his first birthday on August 17. I cannot believe that our fuzzy ball of evil is a year old already. And is every bit, I should add, as mischievous as he was the day we brought him home. Nonetheless, I decided to celebrate his birthday with a special doggy birthday cake.

OK, I want it to be known that, despite my general skill in the kitchen, the doggy birthday cake did require a recipe. Which I was going to follow, of course (ahem). But Waitrose (er, so what if I bought the ingredients from an upscale store like Waitrose?) didn't have plain chicken baby food. Chicken with parsnips and apples, yes. Chicken with butternut squash, yep. Of course, they had chicken with rosemary (what baby would eat chicken without rosemary, is my question). But no plain chicken. So I bought ground beef. I forgot to put shredded carrots in. I refused to top it with bacon.

Yeah, so I didn't follow the recipe exactly. Or at all. But it turned out fine! Well, it turned out OK. Well, it turned out like a rubbery, beefy frisbee. With yogurt as icing. And a carrot stick candle. Perhaps not my single best effort.

Needless to say, Moose loved it. He dived right in, got yogurt all over himself, and assumed a down to business, legs-sprawled-out, face buried right in the cake, eating position, the envy of competitive eaters world-wide.

A happy birthday indeed.

In tribute to Moose and his year on this planet, I would like to say a few words. Our house never smells right. We have some things that could have gone forever without having been peed on (but haven't). One day we would like to be able to leave things on the counter without them getting stolen. We could be £12 richer a day, if the dog walker didn't charge so much. We would have a more active social life if we didn't have to come home to rescue you. But you are sweet (SO sweet). You are silly (you make us laugh all the time). You are soft, cuddly, and warm. You eat the carrots that come in our veg box every week, but that we never manage to eat. You take us for regular walks. You make us very, very happy. So thanks for giving us the first year of your life! We're sure it's going to get better and better. And we don't regret a moment.

Happy Mooseday!

The Center of the Universe

As I sit writing this long overdue blog post, I am watching Moose eat (yes, actually rip into pieces and consume) a wooden door stop. I should stop him, really. But how do you stop a force like a Moose? He is, after all, the center of the universe.

Or so he believes.

I'm not really sure that I blame him for this belief, no matter how inconvenient it is for us. You see, he may not actually be the center of the universe, but he certainly is (for not entirely good reasons) the center of our lives.

Who is our weekend alarm clock? Moose, of course.

Why does our house have to be thoroughly cleaned every weekend? Well, because Moose makes it dirty.

What dictates our activities on weekends? Moose (he needs a long walk every day).

Why do we have to pour bleach on our patio every couple of days? Er...well, I'm not going to get into that one.

This morning, Moose spilled a cup of bright pink, raspberry tea all over the counter in my future mother-in-law's formerly clean kitchen. The fruity liquid flooded into a drawer, which allowed the tea to form a pool and then drip into the cabinet below. Awesome. He learned how to open the lid to the rubbish bin (you can imagine the trouble that caused). He stole a pile of clean laundry and trailed it all over the kitchen. He harassed the chickens in the garden. He ate a sponge. He ate two pairs of my underwear. He stole a gardening glove. He shredded four plastic bags. He figured out how to open the back door. (He already knows how to open the fridge and exercises that knowledge regularly).

...and now he is eating that door stop.

He is, you will understand, the center of our universe.

Unfortunately for Moose, being the center of the universe comes with certain consequences. He has to be kept clean, so he is treated to at least one bath a week. He must be able to see (so that he can lord over his loyal subjects, Lera and Matthew), so he has to be groomed on occasion. And his lovely, soft coat needs to be protected from the constant English rain, so we help him out with things like this:

Heh. Being a dog is so hard, isn't it, Moose?

So very hard.

Moose on the Loose!

Go Westward, young Moose...

There comes a time in every young Moose's life when adulthood calls, independence beckons, and the need to fly the coop simply cannot be contained. The parents aren't cool anymore. The dog walker is just lame. And the walls of the park are nothing but extension of The Man, suppressing the free thoughts of the Moose.

Today was Moose's day. The day to break free. Today, the Moose was loose.

And scared his parents half to death, I might add.

Today was my first day back at work after more than two weeks stuck in bed with bronchitis. I had only been at work for three hours when I received the call that every dog mommy dreads: the call from the dog walker. Now, as every dog mommy knows, the dog walker is not like your kid's teacher. He doesn't call just to check in. He doesn't call to give you a doggy report card. He calls for one reason and one reason only: your dog is missing.

I knew this when I picked up the phone, and yet I still expected other news. In fact, I expected him to be calling to ask whether or not I would be at home, as during my illness I scared him out of his wits on more than one occasion, since he never expected me to be sitting on the sofa when he came in to pick up Moose. Poor guy.

Unfortunately, this really was the dreaded call. He told me, rather calmly if you ask me, that he had been putting Moose in his car after a long walk in Richmond Park when suddenly Moose bolted. Apparently Moose just decided to do something a little different today and ran as fast as his furry little legs could carry him, which is damn fast if you ask me. The dog walker quickly lost track of him and called in reinforcements to help find the escapee. He also called me, which of course caused me to call Matthew, and within minutes the two of us were speeding toward Waterloo Station and then on to Richmond to join the search for our fuzzy little renegade.

Now, before I get too caught up in the ridiculousness of the situation, I just want to pause and say that I have never been so worried. My poor puppy was lost in (I thought) the wilds of Richmond Park and I was terrified that he might chase after some runners (one of his favorite activities), get dognapped, or (worst!) get hit by a car. Moose can be a real pain sometimes, but I would be absolutely devastated if something happened to him.

In any case, as Matthew works closer to Waterloo Station, he was able to get a train before I got to the station. He was about ten minutes ahead of me but promised to get home, pick up the car (ahem, our new BMW), and retrieve me from the station so we could look for the Moose together. Bless him, he is so cool under pressure.

And then I got a totally unexpected phone call. From Matthew. Who had run home from Richmond Station, gone into our house through the back door, gathered keys and kennels and leashes, and then gone out the front door to get the car.

...and who should be sitting right by our front door but Moose? Yes, that's right. Moose LEFT a walled and gated park. Navigated several busy roads (and possibly a roundabout). Chose one of about four different, winding, possible routes. And made it home, cool as a cucumber, without getting hit by a car.

He was so pleased with himself.

Matthew and I both have been entertaining ourselves thinking about Moose's little adventure today. Did he go straight home, do you suppose? Did he walk out of Richmond Park (surely through Richmond Gate, at the top of the hill) and follow the sidewalk right, down Queen's Road, until he reached Park Road? Did he then cross the street (at the pedestrian crosswalk, do you think?), walk up Park Road, cross another street, and then turn right again down King's Road until he reached our street? Or did he leave the park and go across the busy roundabout? Did he walk down the promenade that overlooks the Thames? Did he, perhaps, stop for a pint at the Roebuck, as Matthew and I did just last Thursday? Or did he meet some doggie friends, have a wrestle, and sneak a cheeky cigarette before meeting Matthew at home?

Only Moose will know the details of his journey. What I do know is that this morning I was the proud mommy of a Moose. Tonight I go to bed the (extremely thankful) mommy of a man. Well, a Moose-man. A manly Moose? A...well, you get the point.

For a map of Richmond: http://maps.google.co.uk/maps?client=safari&rls=en&q=richmond+london&oe=UTF-8&redir_esc=&um=1&ie=UTF-8&hq=&hnear=Richmond,+Surrey&gl=uk&ei=8_DES7v2CJTw0gTHhpTRDg&sa=X&oi=geocode_result&ct=image&resnum=1&ved=0CAgQ8gEwAA

The Best Days Apparently Come at a Cost

Some of you might know I recently had the best day ever. Really, I mean it. I woke up earlier than I would have liked but then had the most impressively awesome, hyperproductive day ever. I took the tube from Richmond to Hammersmith to St Pancras and met a good friend for lunch at the British Library. Fun.

I took the tube from St Pancras to Tooting Bec (OK, I will admit, not so nice) for my awesome National Insurance interview. Here I should note that I have some choice words about the fact that I had to have an interview out in East Jesus, London, for the honor of paying into National Insurance, but I am talking about my best day ever here, so I am going to shelve that rant for the moment. And actually, though I waited for forty-five minutes to have my interview, the actual interview took about two minutes and I didn't have to plead my case, show evidence, or stress about it at all, so we can consider that a win.

I then took the tube from Tooting Bec to Stockwell to Victoria to Chiswick Park, where I had arranged an appointment to try on my first ever wedding dress. Uh...everyone who reads my blog knows I got engaged, right? Well, I got engaged. And I scoured the internet for the perfect dress because while I desire to look fabulous in my wedding dress, I have no intention of wandering with my entourage to every bridal shop in London and sipping cheap champagne while trying on every poofy, sparkly gown under the sun. No. I want straps. I don't want sparkles. I don't want to look like a fairy princess. I don't even want to look like a regular princess. I want to look pretty, but like a pretty adult who is taking the wedding seriously. Don't even show me a tiara. Er...right, so I went to Chiswick to try on my one wedding dress, loved it, decided my search was over, and moved right along. Wedding dress: done aaaaaand done!

As I was leaving the bridal shop, I decided to check for missed calls on my phone. You see, I had been invited for a second interview for an editorial assistant position at an educational publishing company and had been told that I would receive a phone call about the position on Friday (my best day ever). Well, the day wore on and on and I had convinced myself that the longer it took, the less likely I was to get the job. But...I got the job! Yay for me! I'm going to be an editorial assistant!!! Whee!

Uh, so then I went and got a Starbucks latte. I mean, wedding or no wedding, I deserve a sugar-filled dessert-disguised-as-life-blood latte after landing a job, right? Right.

THEN I took the tube from Chiswick Park to Stamford Brook (er, I missed the Turnham Green station, like the shining idol of awesomeness that I am) to Richmond and went home in time to meet Matthew...who had just picked up Moose...who had just had the worst day ever.

The vet's post-care letter home to us read (in case we didn't know, having booked the appointment): "Your dog has been castrated."

...

...

...those bastards castrated my dog? They said they were going to neuter my dog! They called it The Big Snip! But...castration? Good Lord, people. Where is the decency? Who does that to an animal? What if he misses his buddies?

OK, just kidding. It was That Time. He's old enough, was marking all over the place, and he was definitely paying the lady dogs a little more attention than before. Sniff. My little baby is growing up.

Anyway, it is fair to say that while I was busy having the best day ever, Moose was busy having the worst. Sorry Moose. But my day was awesome!

So I put Moose to bed. I gave him tons of lovely things to chew on (to distract him from looking for certain items long gone). And then I took the tube from Richmond to Monument to London Bridge to have celebratory drinks (Happy Birthday, Caroline) with friends.

Thanks for the great day, Moose. I'm sure karma will soon work its equalizing ways for us both, buddy.

Back On the Wagon!

OK. I admit it. I haven't posted on the MoooseBlog since late November. I have held a Christmas party. I have been to the States. I have made four different batches of split pea soup. I have seen snow fall...and melt...in London (and have laughed at the complete inability of southern England to cope with the snow). I have made cheese fondue. I have applied for lots of jobs. And have been rejected for a fellowship. I even beat Matthew at Scrabble. Twice. But have I posted on the MooseBlog? Erm...no, I have not.

So what is new on the MooseBlog? Well, Moose has grown. A lot. He is now somewhere between 25 and 30 pounds, though still as skinny as a rail. Moose is now functionally house trained, although he still loves to pee on the new bath mat that my mother gave me for Christmas.

Back at our house in Richmond, Matthew, Moose, and I are frankly warm. I say this with regret and a little bit of shock, as I returned from my Christmas visit to sunny San Diego and was met almost immediately with snow! (Well, actually, I was immediately met by a very carsick Moose, but after the carsickness passed, the snow set in). Now, for those of you who don't live in the UK, and especially for those of you who are from snowy places, you must understand one important thing about snow in southern England (I say southern England because I have been told, rather emphatically (by a northerner), that it is just in the south that this is true): every day it snows is a snow day.

No, seriously. This place shuts down when it snows. Not just shuts down. Screeches to a halt. We got an inch of snow and the rail lines literally stopped. Practically no one (except Matthew, the one with the best work ethic in the world) went to work.

Interestingly, while no one else (except Matthew) went to work, I did go to work. Yes, I was called in to work at my chiropractor's office because the regular receptionist, who lives ten miles away, couldn't get in. Good thing that I live across the street, really.

Now, while I barely tolerated an annoying week of everyone telling me that we cope with the snow better in Wyoming because we salt (we don't), grit (we don't, really), and have better cars (well, not cars so much as tires and nerves of steel), I did take heart in the fact that all of the workers skiving off from their jobs were living it up in a way that we from snowy locations really don't. They were all (and I mean all--all of London) in Richmond Park, sledding, making snowmen, and having snowball fights. I haven't done any of those things in years. Decades, even.

Matthew and I did brave the snow to head down to Mells, for Matthew's father's birthday. Since I have yet to get a UK driver's license, I was unable to help with the winter driving, but Matthew is a natural in the snow. We made it to Somerset (against the odds, apparently) without incident and were able to enjoy a wonderful birthday party. Moose (oh yeah, this blog is about Moose, isn't it?) had a blast playing in the snow and was none too thrilled when we dragged his carsick self back to London. But perhaps the best part about Somerset in the snow (aside from the curvaceous snow-woman that Matthew's brother, Paul, and Paul's wife, Vicci built) was the sight of Stonehenge in the snow.

Considering that the one and only time I have ever been to Stonehenge (yes, this photo was taken from outside the chain-link fence, in what even my hearty Wyoming self has to classify as the bitter cold) I was eleven, wind-bitten, and thoroughly rained on, snowy Stonehenge was a revelation. I even made Matthew (thanks, Matthew!) turn around and drive through genuine snow drifts so I could get a picture.

Ah, it appears that my blogging fingers are out of shape from the month away. But I will be back next week with some real sarcasm and an actual Moose update. Moose, in case you are wondering, is asleep at our feet while Matthew and I watch the BBC and contemplate turning off the heat now that the weather has warmed up.

Apparently it is supposed to snow on Wednesday. Snow day!