Look at my sweetest, sweet, sweet Henny dog. I get really mushy with her and tell her how she’s a angel inside a tiny dog’s body. I also tell her that she’s important and special and a beautiful dog, because she was treated as the opposite for the first three years of her life, but it’s never too late to learn new things about yourself. It’s all a bit earnest and silly, but look at that face and then try NOT to say those things.
Mostly what I say to Nova is, ‘Hey, stop doing that!’ She’s a good puppy, but she is still a puppy. I’m fairly strict with her, but I also try to keep in mind that she WANTS all these things (food from my plate, to eat things that are not food, to lick and bite, to jump around like a crazy dog), and she doesn’t get them, and that’s frustrating. I think it’s important to recognize the frustration/grief that comes with not getting the things you want (even if you have no business wanting them) and to react, at the end of the day, with sympathy for that frustration.
Nova’s big news is that, when I let her outside this morning, she saw a baby shrew, caught it, and killed it. I’m not sure baby shrews are very tough, because Nova wasn’t particularly vicious (actually, she wasn’t at all vicious — she seemed to act on instinct and then didn’t know what to do when the shrew was dead), but it conked out very quickly. I quickly put on some shoes, but it was an ex-shrew by the time I got outside. Oddly enough, even though I think tiny fuzzy animals are soooo cute, I’m not at all bothered when one of the pets dispatches one, so long as it’s quick. As I said elsewhere, I assume this promotes Nova from ‘toy breed’ to ‘hunting dog’.
And here’s Beansy McBeans. The box she’s sitting is — WOULD YOU BELIEVE IT?! — not made for cats. It’s a hanging file box that Rob got for our Hinckley House files, but he’s switched to a different system now. I’ve been working downstairs lately and then going up to the living room in the evenings, and I was getting sick of carting around my laptop and wishing my chapstick weren’t so far away, etc. So I removed the little wire piece for hanging files, and tada — it’s an upstairs/downstairs bag. (Rob says ‘upstairs/downstairs bags’ aren’t a thing, but he also didn’t believe me when I told him that, here in America, we called television repeats ‘bonus views’.) (I may have definitely made up both of those things.) I guess Beany has decided that the stairs are too much work for her, and she would please like to be toted up and down from now on.