The Dangers of Having a Teenager

Matthew and I are good dog parents. Actually, you know what? We are excellent dog parents. Seriously. We feed Moose premium, healthy dog food (it smells like pot roast). We take Moose for daily walks in the country (correction - we moved to the country for Moose). We let Moose sleep on the bed Moose lets us sleep on the bed with him!

Possibly the best thing we do for Moose (or is it the best thing we do for the cranky, overly-sensitive neighbours?) is we leave the TV on for him when we go away. There are many highly rational reasons for this. 1. The TV keeps Moose company when we are out! 2. The TV makes more noise than Moose does! 3. The TV makes it look like someone is home (as if someone would break in when there is a snarling Moose hurling himself at the front window at every tiny sound)!

But most importantly, leaving the TV on gives us the opportunity to educate Moose fully. You know - make him a fully rounded Moose. An educated Moose. A cultured Moose. Which is why we usually leave Moose with the National Geographic Channel, Eden, or History. Not Animal Planet, of course. Too much barking and God knows what smut he'd learn from that Cesar Millan. 

Now, it might not have escaped your attention, but Moose recently turned two. Those of you who are math geeks know what this means. I am not a math geek, so I used a calculator and discovered that 2 (human years) x 7 (dog years) = 14 = DISASTER! Moose is a teenager! A stinky, sleepy teenager whose purpose it is to embarrass and rebel against his loving parents! It occurred to me: while we are away (such trusting parents), TeenMoose must be getting into trouble! Raiding the goodie jar! Peeing on our bed! And, worst of all, watching trash on TV!

That last point is a fact. OK, actually all three points are facts, but this blog post is about point number three. The important one. The poisoning of Moose's fecund mind!

We haven't actually caught him in the act of watching forbidden, smut television. He's not currently showing signs of wanting to be America's Next Top Model or anything. Dawson's Creek is long off the air, so we aren't worried about him getting inappropriately involved with his teacher. Nothing like that. But what we are seeing is far more disturbing. 

We think he's been watching cartoons. 

We leave him with something like The World of Antarctic Birds or Churchill's Finest Millisecond and then the moment we leave the house, he changes the channel to the Disney Channel or (worse!) the Cartoon Network. And he has picked up some dangerous ideas. 

1. Who, if not the TV, taught Moose that his purpose in life is to harrass, harrangue, and possibly maul the postman? Why, when the postman brings lovely letters and politely puts them through the door without so much as ringing the bell, has Moose decided that the best course of action, upon sighting the postman's high-visibility vest, is to do his damnedest to eat the postman's head through the window-glass?

2. Must it have been cartoons that taught Moose that a cat is a better snack than it is a companion? Because that is the only explanation I have for his apparent obsession with chasing cats!

Thank you, teenage Moose. Thank you, Cartoon Network and all of your bad-attitude cartoon dogs. Thanks to you, my chiropractor wonders why my elbows are always out of place. Thanks to you, my shoes are showing worrying signs of skid-wear. 

My walks, you see, are not the peaceful country walks that you might imagine I am having. 

My walks, you see, now look like this:

Moose v. Cat. Lera v. Moose
Cartoon Credit: Diane Nichols (thanks, Mommy!)

I'm like the parachute that comes out of the ass end of drag-race cars. The little flag that flaps around behind go-carts. I'm the smiley ping-pong ball that people inexplicably skewer on their car antennas. 

Worst of all, I am the bizarre neighbour who swears loudly while being dragged, against her will, through flower beds, front gardens, and hedgerows in pursuit of a smirking yet mortally endangered neighbourhood mog. 

Ah, well. At least he hasn't started partying late at night, eating dangerous amounts of chocolate. Just wait till he turns three...

Why Being a Moose Rocks the Hiz

We all have ambitions. Matthew wants to win the lottery so we can finally buy a 'shag pad' (his words, not mine) in Budapest. My parents apparently want all three of their daughters, both sons in law, the grandkid, and the associated five dogs all to move permanently into their one-bedroom house. Most of the world's news agencies would like to see Pippa Middleton marrying Prince Harry while wearing a mini skirt and thigh-high stiletto boots. And that could be Pippa or Harry in the skirt, by the way.

My ambitions are simpler than that. My goal: be reincarnated as Moose. 

A Moose. Plus another one. At my parents' house.

Not A moose. Not two moose (see plural moose, pictured right). Not the kind of moose that wanders into my parents' back yard, eats their aspen trees, makes itself comfortable on the back porch, and stares menacingly at the dog. No, I want to be our Moose. The dog Moose. The Moose that gets to track mud all over our white carpet and not get evicted from the house. The Moose that eats much better than we do and then is allowed to wipe his face all over our newly-covered sofas. The Moose that takes great pleasure jumping on the bed at four in the morning  and nudging us out of our warm sleeping spaces so he can have a bit of a snuggle.

That's the kind of Moose I want to be. 

This is a well thought out ambition, I will have you know. I mean, it isn't as if I am not satisfied with my own life. Let's just take the past two months. I went to Wyoming for six weeks, during which time I worked both my real job and my dream job simultaneously (mindblowing multitasking!) and got to hang out with the parents at said one-bedroom house. I also had knee surgery (shall we call this epic multitasking?) and attended a staff meeting. And recertified my EMT card (how does she DO all this multitasking?). And then I picked up and went to Croatia, where I wandered around in the sun, ate incredible seafood, and drank insane amounts of red wine from a plastic bottle (slow down, multitasker!).  So as I was saying, it's not half bad. 

But let's take stock of the things a Moose has that a Lera does not. 

1. A tail. An oft neglected dog feature (especially in the States where some dogs' tails are docked) that shows emotion, looks adorable, can thwap people in the face, and can purposefully knock all manner of items off a table while making it look like an accident. Moose even dipped his tail into a glass of champagne the other day, just for fun. 

2. The ability to bite people and make it look like emotional distress. Well, OK. I will admit that if I ran up to someone and bit them it might look a lot like emotional distress and/or a strong dose of hallucinogenic drugs. Whereas when Moose, for example, ran up and bit a visiting priest last week, he only earned a mild scowl and a swift trip inside. 

3. Predictably bad breath. No, I am serious about this one. You know when you wake up in the morning and you kiss your husband/wife/partner/one-night-stand and you worry that your breath just stinks? Moose doesn't care. 

4. His very own blog. I couldn't possibly have a blog that is dedicated to myself. No, I am far too mild mannered and humble for that sort of thing. But Moose, you see, has his very own blog to detail his adventures. I am just his publicist, if you think about it. I want a publicist! 

So there you have it. Four very good reasons why I want to be Moose in my next life. The only problem with my design is this: what makes a Moose life so grand is the fact that his publicist, chef, massage therapist, life coach, and sleeping buddy happens to be me. So in order for me to die and reincarnate as a Moose I would also have to not die and not have to reincarnate as anybody. So...multitasking? Translife, multi-dimension multitasking. I despair. 

A Rat Called Basil

Reader, I want you to look carefully at the photo above. Do you see the devilish glint in his eye? The sheepish look on his furry face? The aura of self-satisfaction? Yes, that is one pleased looking little rat.

I will tell you why he is so damn pleased with himself. Matthew and I, as new homeowners, seem to have entered into the Saturday home improvement club. Our Saturdays are dedicated to cleaning, fixing, planting, mowing, weeding, installing, perfecting, and taking endless trips to Homebase (today's trip will be in the endeavour to obtain a loft ladder and various other exciting pieces of hardware).

So this morning, while Matthew was down at the bottom of the garden picking what has turned into an enormous crop of blackcurrants (courtesy of the previous owners and a good two years of neglect), I was on the deck planting a pot of basil. OK, before you accuse me of actually giving two hoots about gardening (I don't), I should clarify by admitting that the basil came as a patty (looking an awful lot like a chocolate chip cookie) and was incongruously included in a pack of Lurpak butter. I don't know what basil seeds and butter are doing together in the aisles of our supermarkets, but it's really none of my business, so I won't pry.

Anyway, since Matthew and I managed to kill our parsley (actually, Moose killed our parsley by knocking over the pot repeatedly), we had an empty, comfortable home for our patty of basil/butter seeds, so I got out my green thumb and did some minor gardening.

Erm, actually, I should come clean and admit that the patty really only had to be placed on top of the soil and watered, and then broken up an hour or so afterward and left to do its thing. Look, I already said that I am not a gardener, OK? Leave me alone.

But I tell you, friends, that the basil had not been nestled on top of the soil of a plant we had previously killed for more than three minutes before our ratty little Moose gobbled up the basily, seedy, buttery goodness! He ate the ersatz chocolate chip cookie in one remorseless bite!

Life with a Moose is tough business, I tell you. Dog eat dog. Dog eat basil. Dog eat tube after tube of Lera's almond chapstick.

It's only a matter of time, dear friends, before he is tossed out onto the street.

Oh, but look at how sweet he looks! And how innocent, with his sweet puppy eyes.

How quick we are to forgive. Alas.

Mooserable?

Oh, does the bad blogger of the year award go to me? I am speechless. I'd like to thank so many people for this hard-earned award. Thank you to Matthew, for marrying me and whisking me off on our great Romanian road trip honeymoon.

Thanks to work for firing me (and everyone else) and then employing me as a freelance editor anyway. Thanks to Christmas being held in two countries at once. Thanks to my grandmother, aunt, and uncle for cheering on the Oklahoma Thunder with Matthew and me (that was awesome). Thanks to the shower at 53 Princes Road for flooding every day, leading Matthew and me to throw in the rented towel (literally and metaphorically) and buy our own place. Thanks (oh, especially thanks) to the annoyingly slow vendor and the even more annoyingly pedantic solicitor for taking their damn sweet time completing the sale/purchase of our new house. Thanks (genuine, heart-felt thanks) to my in-laws for letting me stay at their house for a whopping six weeks, sans Matthew, while said annoying vendor and solicitor farted around with the house sale/purchase. Thanks to Lovells for being such shite builders that installing our washing machine and dishwasher became a DIY engineering miracle. And thanks to my meniscus for tearing after I tripped over a root while walking Moose. Yeah, thanks a lot for that one. Really makes things special.

OK, actually life has been absolutely amazing since I last put a sarcastic and figurative pen to this blog. But because it is my calling as sarcastic blogger to write with cynical slant, you will forgive the jaded introduction. I haven't blogged since August, people. I've got a lot of wit to pen. Or type. Whatever.

In the interest of writing a blog that covers more than the last nine months, I think I am going to write about my new neighbors. Neighbours. Look, can we just all make peace with the fact that some of my readers are Yanks and some of them are Limeys, and that my spelling is inevitably going to boomerang between the two? Yeah, thanks. Anyway, the people who live next door. They're nice, probably, but they seem not to have taken to the Moose. To the degree that we have been here just two months and they have already complained about what, to them, seems to be incessant barking. Yes, to those particular neighbors, our furry darling is a pest, a nuisance, a menace. Er...actually, that would be a pretty good description in anyone's book. But to them, he is nothing but a barking machine! We were worried about this, of course, on the occasion of said complaint. However, upon further investigation (ie. too many drinks with the neighbors who live on the other side of us), it became clear that the offending barking was, in fact, two incidents of no more than a minute each. In other words, Moose might actually have done nothing wrong. At all.

Unlikely, right? And yet...probable. Could it be that Moose is not, in fact, a black ball of pure evil? I will leave you with photo evidence, and you can decide for yourselves.