FAQ.

Q: Whatsoever did happen to the three little dogs?

A: Well, it was high drama. Online, on the website for the animal shelter of my city, it said that they (a) were not open on Saturdays, (b) were closed before we could get home on the worky-work days of last week, (c) were possibly scary and disheartening to visit (not on the website), (d) whatsoever would we do, and whatsoever would become of the three little dogs?

Well, after said dogs had been at our house for a week, cozily ensconced in our laundry room/enclosed porch, we decided we really needed to take them to the shelter, since we were getting no action from our flyers/sign/newspaper ad. So running son and I (with a heavy heart) took the dogs to the shelter.

Where the shelter folks were, of course, very nice, but only after interrogating me as to whether I found said dogs, and to wit, within the city limits. And where the young woman working the desk said, "I know who those dogs belong to." And lo! the heavens did sing, for there was within the city limits of my city a man who has four (FOUR) Shih Tzu dogs, and he had picked up one of them (not one we found), and had said these magic words to the young woman: "I am still missing three (THREE) Shih Tzus."

And the young woman did remember these words, and did repeat them unto us after which she rang the gent whose Shih Tzus we had in our wriggle-filled arms, so that she could deliver the message. BAM.

Q: Where have you been, hightouchmegastore?

A: At an undisclosed location.

Q: And what did you eat there?

A: Tacos pescados. Shrimp and fries. Salmon hash. Mussels and frites. Gougeres. Pear tartlet with honey ice cream.

Q: And what awaited you upon your return home?

A: The kids and grandkids came over for lasagne and gelato. We took down the Christmas decor. High spirits and merriment. Three fewer alien dogs in the house.

Q: And are you rested and ready to fight another day?

A: Boy howdy.

Son of dog.

Or: Dog, Part 2: an FAQ.

Q: How many messages total did you leave for the strange large friendly dog's people?

A: Three. One when we first identified the phone number from the tag; one for the second phone number on the tag, wherein we intimated that we might need to take the dog to the shelter; and a third, left by running/college/former missionary son, wherein he said, pretty much, "We're keeping the dog here, and you can call me anytime, because I'm going to be up all night. I'm young like that."

Q: Where did the strange large friendly dog sleep?

A: At first, we thought to corral his largeness and curiosity in a warm bathroom, with a cushiony bed and blanket. However, he thought dimly of this arrangement, and there was much whimpering for the 22.5 minutes he was in there. Aforementioned son thought it would be better to have the large dog downstairs and Bruiser upstairs, which would have necessitated Bruiser sleeping with us, which is in fact what he did. On our bed. With occasional jumping out of bed to whimper at the door, indicating his grave dissatisfaction about our refusal to allow him to investigate, i.e. fight with, the strange large friendly dog. But we were firm, and the new arrangement worked out fine, if by "worked out fine" you mean "we got four hours of sleep last night."

Q: What of strange large friendly dog? What became of him?

A: Taking aforementioned son up on his offer, the people of the strange large friendly dog called at about five a.m., and came to get the dog thereafter. Bruiser took notice of this exit by hopping out of bed and whining at the door. We were all Wha? and went right back to sleep. Roughly around seven a.m., son announced that the strange large friendly dog had been retrieved by his grateful human, and I thought, basically, Thank God. Because it's one thing to have a strange large friendly dog follow you home and try to romp with your leashed dog (if by "romp" you mean "hump"), and then have a doggy sleepover at your house. It's quite another to deal with that situation in the light of day. When you have to go to work, and there's a blizzard coming on.

Now that you mention a blizzard: no one could have been happier than I than when the snow-day-callers at my place of employ called a snow day starting at 2 p.m. My only complaint was that they could have just gone ahead and called it two days ago on Sunday. Everybody knew it was coming. Let's be proactive, people.

So, after provisioning (almonds, laundry detergent, whipping cream, potato chips, Izzy soda), we hunkered down to wait for the storm. As the hours passed and there was wind but no snow, and even a patch of blue sky, I found myself anxious for the snow day's credibility. What if only a paltry amount of blizzard arrived? What if, blizzard-wise, it were a pussy cat instead of a roaring beast? Would they ever call a snow day again? Thank goodness we got a little pizzazz out of the storm. Now, I'll be busy thinking proactive thoughts about how it could last until tomorrow around noon. A double-header snow day is the best.

(p.s. for all friends and beloveds who are traveling: I hope you're safe and get where you're going more or less on time.)

Sometimes you just hear what you want to hear.

This evening, walking the dog at dusk.

Kids up the street: (in chorus) Can we pet your dog?

Us: Sure!

Me: His name is Bruiser.

One kid (while petting Bruiser): We know. (pause:) I'm a monster. (one arm inside his shirt)

Another kid (also petting Bruiser): I'm a monster too.

Me: Very scary.

Yet another kid (petting Bruiser): I'm not a monster.

Me: So, the monsters are trying to catch you?

Yet another kid: (nods)

More petting. Then:

Me: (brisk as all hell) Okay!

The historian: So you think it's time to get going?

Me: Yep.

Kids: (in chorus) Bye Bruiser!

The historian: (contemplatively) When that kid said I'm a monster, at first I thought he said, I'm a Marxist.

Brioche, a love story.

Isn't it a pretty word, brioche? Frankly, I find the names of all French pastries lovely, although I do not think that I am alone in this regard. My darling readers, mes petits vacherins. Or whatever. But brioche! with its darling little topknot. Its pans with baroque flutings. Its wash of egg and its many eggs, its butter, &c. Right, rich bread, you get the picture.

Once upon a time, I bought a brioche mold--just one--at Williams-Sonoma, for a far off day when I might get myself and my eggs and butter together to make this Richie McRich of breads, this extravagant dough, this homage to my longing for Frenchness. (Right, rich bread with extra rich on the side, &c.)

The day did arrive, and I did get it together, and I made the dough, lovingly, paying careful attention to the details of the recipe as if it weren't just bread which I have made a thousand times, but not with such a profligacy of ingredients, such a festival of fat! To be baked in a darling pan, but still--just dough.

I set the blessed dough to rise, and rise it did. I deflated it, and put it in its buttered tin to proof. Flour, milk, butter, eggs and more eggs, some sugar--that dough was about as gorgeous as it's possible for dough to be. I left the kitchen for the yeast to do its magic.

And upon my return, was there a fully proofed pan of brioche ready to go into the oven? And would there be brioche that day? There was not, and there would not. Instead there was a slightly gassy dog. That's right: the dog that ate my brioche.

(These are tearstained words, even at this remove: "The dog ate my brioche." Obviously, I could have made brioche again, but once I'd broken that many eggs and lost the dough to my dog, my faith in the whole process was a little bit damaged, to be absolutely honest. I just didn't have the heart.)

However, at the farmer's market this Saturday, our favorite baker had brioche. Not baked in a fluted pan--baked in a regular old loaf, all the better to slice it for toast or even French toast. French! It is lovely, and it is French, and yet it was baked in Logan, Utah. Is that exotic or what.

On my own: a little whine, with a dog story.

I like being alone.  I like shaping my own day and I like consulting my very own self about what I should do and when.  Of course, I like being with my friends and my beloveds, but what I'm saying is, I do find a lot of pleasure in solitude.

However.

Today I felt almost itchy, I wanted so much to be in contact.  Stuff's going on at work, I'm missing my colleagues, there are never any e-mails, where are my updates?  It's made me a little snappish. However, I do have this to report:

Today, after I picked up Bruiser's poop in a poop-pick-up bag thingie, and I was trying to tie it off while my hands were in gloves, and we were crossing the street at one of our usual street-crossing places, and then there was a cat which he was very interested in, and I was saying, "No! No!," still tying off the poop bag and then, after the cat went into the garage and Bruiser was still looking backward as she disappeared, the little dog at that same house came roaring out into the front yard to the very edge of the chain link fence, barking like he was a T-Rex and Bruiser was going to be his snack, and Bruiser got in his play crouch and then dashed off, while I was holding onto the leash and trying to finish tying off the poop and I got whirled around and the leash flew out of my hands, the poop bag went flying, and I fell.  I'm pretty sure you could see daylight between me and the sidewalk at that point.  I didn't get hurt but it did make me feel mad.  

And when I got back home from this walk/debacle?  Still no e-mails.  

Whine out.