Still working my way through the final proofreading pass through the book. I’m going backward so that I don’t get bogged down or distracted, and I’m marking up a PDF so that I’m not tempted to tweak and twiddle. I’ve been knocking out about 100 pages a night, with 100 pages to go.
To unwind, I’ve been poking around on the internets. Oh, the crazy things you find.
Via PZ, via GOOD, via This Is Why You’re Fat, I’ve just tonight learned about the turbaconucken (a turducken wrapped in bacon, because everything’s better wrapped in bacon) and the Fool’s Gold Stack (pancakes layered with bacon and peanut butter). I think I’m gaining weight just looking at the pictures of these things.
Somehow, clicking here, clicking there, I found this E.B. White quote:
Being the owner of dachshunds, to me a book on dog discipline becomes a volume of inspired humor. Every sentence is a riot. Some day, if I ever get a chance, I shall write a book, or warning, on the character and temperament of the dachshund and why he can’t be trained and shouldn’t be. I would rather train a striped zebra to balance an Indian club than induce a dachshund to heed my slightest command. When I address [FIZZGIG] I never have to raise either my voice or my hopes. He even disobeys me when I instruct him in something he wants to do.
Some searchin’-and-replacin’ is in order here. All the occurrences of “dachshund” could easily be changed to “Jack Russell terrier,” and if anything the quote would make even more sense.
I’d have to say, though, that the venerable Mr. White was apparently a bit more resigned to his dachshund’s misdeeds than I am to Charlotte’s. Damn, that girl can wear a nerve.
Case in point: a couple of years ago, Todd bought me a pair of stuffed animals for Valentine’s Day. They’re kind of like this–two honeybees with magnetic noses. When you put the noses together, they kiss and say “I love you!” These little critters are maddening to Charlotte Regina. Whenever I knock them together accidentally, and they make their noises, she becomes very intent upon investigating (read: destroying) them. I’ve had to put them inside a cupboard to protect them. This morning, when we got to the office, she made a bee-line* for that cupboard and sat down an inch away. She spent the better part of the day staring at it and whining, occasionally scratching at the door.
Yesterday she paced around Todd’s wastebasket for an hour or so–utterly ignoring my so-called “commands” to stop–until finally I dumped the whole thing out to see what she wanted. She nosed around among the crumpled EOB forms and ripped-open envelopes and discarded Post-It notes. When she paused to examine a balled-up Subway sandwich wrapper, I thought maybe she’d been sniffing some trace of BMT juice. But no. It turned out that Todd had thrown away the plastic squeaker she’d chewed loose from one of her toys. There was still some squeak left it, you see, so she had to have it back.
Even though our girl’s obsessive tendencies can on occasion be rather annoying, at least it’s good to know that she’s a smart one. Maybe a little too smart. I’m half-convinced I’m going to wake up one day and find that the puppy is gone, along with one of the cars. Fortunately, she won’t be hard to find. I’m sure she’ll be at the PetSmart romping through the squeaky-toy aisle.
* No pun intended, of course.
