One Two Three Four

I've slept approximately thirty-six of the preceding forty-eight hours. The remaining twelve or so have been more than adequately filled by the canker sore on my tongue (left side, roughly opposite the second molar) which is throbbing so intensely you can actually see the whole left side of my face pulsing if you look closely enough.

I'm inclined to blame the neighbors' dog for this, just because I can. He hasn't missed any meals. He didn't have to wake up cursing because I was barking incessantly at 10 PM. He's been walked and petted and wrestled with over a slobbery tennis ball, and I've carried his feces up the block in a sandwich bag, something no one has ever done for me.

He's a suburbanite's dog, which is to say he's a purebred, a large breed (Yellow lab), chosen apparently out of some combination of the daughter's pre-teen I'd rather have a pony aesthetics and weird Republican lawn-care dad Romanicism (We're going to breed him! He's going to retriever classes so we can hunt!). Neighbor wife wanted a cat and was outvoted, at which point she should have simply quit doing the laundry that, as a good American Republican suburbanite wife, she does after a full day's work instead of hubby salesman getting any of it done while he sits at home yammering on his cell phone, intact and unbred and faithful retriever by his side.

Actual interest in the dog lasted about nine months, or roughly the time it took him to stop being a puppy and start being a continuing problem. We would have started a pool, but both my wife and myself knew exactly what was about to happen. He's not a bad neighbor; he doesn't bark much, which is why being awakened by him was doubly irritating, and he does all his digging on the other side of their property. He's just somewhat neglected, not particularly bright, and must be presently on his second month without a bath. It's the sort of thing that happens when you a) let Republicans make decisions based on their unrealistic assumptions about the world and b) put them in charge of the maintenance.

The best thing about these semi-annual dogsitting stints is that I get to reclaim whatever of our possessions have made their way next door. This is not actually much of a problem--about 80% of things borrowed will be returned within, say, three months--but there's usually something to reclaim whenever an equinox comes around, and now I've finally got my copy of the Ramones documentary End of the Century back. Which was what I set out to write about, back ten minutes ago when nobody was pounding on my head. G'night again.