Well That's Encouraging...

I am religious with my music. Most everyday I go outside and walk for awhile with my tunes, I would go absolutely insane without the practice, seriously. I’ll brave snow storms and duct tape an antenna to my head if I have to. Even when I’m driving I’m either listening to the radio or plugged in with one of those righteous cassette adaptors.

Those who know me and have been equally unfortunate enough to drive with me, will at some point ask me why I sing along rather softly. I’m no Madonna, but I’m most certainly not Sanjaya either. Most of the time my excuse for cranking my music so loud, like the ignorant teenager I am, is so that people can’t hear me when I sing. In conjunction with that, if I give you the gift of not having to tolerate my singing, its considered courteous to return the favor. But hey, its not like I'm one of those wieners who are totally in the zone with their air drums at every red light.

For those fantasy rock stars I know, you’re not wieners. Just special.

However, there is no mercy for those who talk during good songs. If you try to start a deep conversation during Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Freebird guitar solo, you will receive one Judo chop (or more, as necessary) to the throat.

A few days ago I was sitting in my room with Bagheera, playing music on my laptop. Assuming Lisa was still asleep and that my walls were thicker, I started to sing to ABBA’s Dancing Queen. Yes. Don’t judge.

Without warning, she burst into my room wide eyed, staring at me cautiously for a moment.

“Were you singing?”

“Uh… yes,” I pointed to my laptop “Dancing Queen.”

“Oh, okay. I thought you were chanting some Indian voodoo hex on my dog!” she laughed.

…

I don’t care how nice you claim my voice is, Steve, I’m not singing out loud again.

And I should hex that damn dog…

The Dog Known As "Furry Bastard."

After a series of events in my friend Lisa’s life, she trekked back up to our home state of Maine to live with my mom and me (When I’m not down in Florida with my boyfriend, Steve). Well, when she came up she was accompanied by a rabbit named Butterscotch and a bear (allegedly a dog) named Bagheera.

For the most part Bagheera is an aggressively friendly Lab/Chow mix. And probably a few other things as well, like gorilla. After he got over his very temporary shyness, he developed a habit of head butting my bedroom door wide open so he can look out the large windows, which have a wide view of the street.

For the most part, I don’t actually mind this habit of his. But when I’m trying to sleep at eight in the morning and the sun is just in the right spot, Bagheera takes it upon himself to not only make a loud entrance but to move my curtain so he can see outside, while I get blasted awake with beams of sunshine. And if my mother is leaving for work, he whimpers and cries for about ten minutes as he proceeds to run from the door and back into my room.

Alright. That’s not enough for me to want to barbeque him… yet.

I also happen to be a clean freak. While I do have a lot visually going on in my room, its neatly arranged clutter. Well, Bagheera has a bad case of dry skin and naturally, he tends to scratch himself a lot. Two days after vacuuming, the carpet in my room is showered with dander and riddled with clumps of black fur. This wouldn’t nearly bother me as much if he didn’t specifically barge into my room to sit in the middle of my floor and scratch for half an hour. I especially hate when he starts to lick or chew himself, the dog sounds like he’s snorkeling.

At this point, I’m thinking barbeque sauce would be a great addition.

Being a puppy, he has a bunch of curious habits. Now, when Bagheera happens to spot something outside of my window, he goes ballistic. Such as other dogs being walked or a cat tumbling down a snow bank after a McDonalds wrapper. However, there are those few occasions when a field mouse will get within a certain radius of the house, perhaps fart, and Bagheera feels very obligated to make sure we know too. At say, four in the morning.

Among his other habits include absolutely rank farts, running over my smaller dog on occasion, taking dumps the size of logs, vendettas with sweaters, obsessions with the rabbit, eating snow, licking random household objects, attempts to face plant food within his range, eating tree skirts (Ha, Merry Christmas), laying in doorways or hallways (the furry bastard is hard to see at night, we usually trip over him), and a personal goal to try knock everyone over like bowling pins.

He once even nipped our friend Bryan on the penis, with Zack off in the corner snickering at his friend writhing in pain. I caught him look upward and mouth “Thank you.”

Despite the long list of questionable mannerisms, he is a decently good dog. Especially when I close my door all the way and hear him thump his head against it to no avail.