The Beauty of Memory

Quite early in our friendship, the Good Countess of Yik Yak introduced me to the fine art of scrapbooking.

I must admit, I had previously maintained that this endeavour was only done by rural women and shut-ins. That really - no one would every choose to do this as a creative outlet unless they had run out of DoodleArt posters and macrame string.

I was mistaken.

Sorely mistaken.

On the contrary, this handicraft lays itself open in a boundless arena of potential. And the Baroness is all about potential. Yes she is.

Scrapbooking truly is an amazing art, and those who are passionate about it do it so well; they manage to sift through a wide array of magnificent materials, techniques both ancient and cutting edge and breathtaking layouts to sculpt meaningful tributes to those things they hold the dearest:

Newborns:

(source: Angelica's Gallery)

Young Wanderers:

(source: earlofoxford)

Pets:

(source: DogArtist)

Family Elders:

Happy Monday, oh Patient ones!!

My Name is Zeus, and I'm an Alcoholic

Hi, Zeus.

The Baroness must whisk off this missive with a great deal of urgency, as I am expecting representatives from PETA pounding at my door any minute. I'll get to the reason why shortly.

Those of you who know the Baroness and her family are aware of their pet population. Quite small, quite manageable. For those of you not in the know, I will tell you that we are the proud owners of a magical, eternal rabbit, and a lemonhoondt. Whatever is a lemonhoondt, Baroness? Sit down and get comfy and all will be revealed.

Once upon a time, the B family went to visit the Baron's brother Frederick. Frederick and his wife had 5 pugs. They started with 2, but you know how things go when the lights are out. Any-ways, the Baron was thereby convinced that the pug was the perfect dog for him. Small dog, small shedding, small packages of refuse. So we began to look. Lo and behold, we found our little lemonhoondt.

You see, dear readers, this mashed-up faced darling runt of the litter, while sweet in disposition, is the antithesis of a medical marvel. Well, maybe his medical history in and of itself is a marvel. I know for a fact that the vet bills we receive leave me agape for quite some time afterwards.

In his short life, he's had a broken hip, pulled teeth, face fold infections, eye infections, ear infections and bladder stones. All of which are seriously affecting his profit-loss ratio. And now, our radiant little runt has pit problems. Yes, you read this correctly. Pit problems. As in a red, bumpy rash in his armpit area (do dogs have armpits - ok no, but you get the general idea). Upon careful assessment, I now believe that there isn't a square inch of his body that has not needed medical intervention at some point.

Which brings me to the PETA issue. Hold on - was that a shadow falling across my front door? Time is of the essence here. Long story shortened:

Dog must take antibiotic pills for his pit problems. Dog does not like antibiotic pills. Family tries to hide said pills in cheese. Dog eats around pill. Family tries to coat pill with peanut butter - dog licks off peanut butter - gee this game is fun, and I'm getting all sorts of treats I never usually get. Family crushes pill and mixes into wet food. No go. Dog goes on supermodel diet of water and air.

Finally, to quote the Baroness' friend Oprah - an "AHA" moment. If we mix the gravy from the roast beef in with the wet food and the crushed pill, dog will eat. And lo and behold, it was so. But then a strange thing began to happen. Dog began to sleep. A lot. All the time.

Do you ever have one of those microsecond flashes of clarity when you get a whiff of something? The Baroness did yesterday, as she was making the antibiotic/food/gravy concoction. She flashed back to when she made the gravy, how she was whisking it in the pan, then she ventured to the pantry for - wait for it - the wine.

Thus, the tired dog, and thus the panic that somehow PETA is going to find out that I'm turning my dog into an alcoholic.

Must run.