Duque. Duke. Dookie. Duke-a-luke.

Oh, right, so we got this dog.

He is, by far, the sweetest, most well-behaved dog I've ever owned. He is crate-trained and house-broken and he heels and walks on a leash. We can actually take him outside without a leash on and he stays right by either Jason or me.

BUT. Only a couple of buts, but still but.

For one thing, we have his crate in our bedroom. I still think that's probably best, but this dog is the wiggliest, loudest, weirdest dog ever in a crate. He doesn't freak out or jump around or anything like that. He just re situates very frequently. Also, any time he scratches or licks he has to brace himself with one leg against the side of the crate. Some day I will take a picture of this to illustrate, because that's the best way I can describe it. IT IS SO LOUD AT FOUR AM. We tried putting a towel in the bottom of the crate; he pushes it aside. We put his bed in the bottom of the crate; he doesn't like it.

Besides the crate noise, the hour-long lick sessions at three and four in the morning are getting a little tired. LICK LICK LICK LICK LICK NIBBLENIBBLENIBBLE LICK LICK. The sound of the licking on its own doesn't wake me. The crate-wiggling wakes me, and then I listen to the licklick nibblenibble for an hour or so.

Also, the motherfucking dog ate my sweet potato pie. Rather, he chewed on it and then spit it out. It was on a plate, wrapped in aluminum foil on the kitchen counter. He pulled it down, which broke the plate, gnawed open the foil and then bit the crust off of the pie, which he then politely spit in the living room floor. NO PIE FOR ME.

Also, he peed on the bottom of the couch. Just, tra la la, PEE. He is house-broken, and we haven't had any other accidents, so I can't figure this one out. He just walked up to the couch, with Jason standing right there, lifted his leg and peed.

Duque really is a good dog, and we love him so. Reed is pretty good with him, and has already started training him in the ways of letting us set things on his head. I don't have a clue why Reed thinks this is a good idea, but he does, and I agree. Duque is very quiet and calm and patient, and that is the perfect temperament for my temperament, also known as the If You Don't Shut The Fuck Up and Sit Down Right Now I'm Going To Throw Myself Out The Window. So, you know. It works.

And here is what I do at work...

I am a very busy woman.

In other news, we're going to get our dog tomorrow. He's excited, too.



And this right here is a very informative swine flu website you should check out. And here is another one.

Our new kangaroo is supposed to arrive next week.

I'll be honest with you: I think maybe something is wrong with me. And also with pretty much everybody I know.

As long as we've lived in our house, which is about four years, Jason has wanted a dog. A big dog. Some sort of large, bounding, herding dog that the kids can ride around the back yard and that can kill whole cows and bring them home for dinner. I have spent this last four years saying no, a thousand times no, we don't need a dog and we can't have a dog and if we were going to get a dog I want a Chinese Crested. Jason's response was "Hell no on the Chinese Crested but OF COURSE we need a dog and can have a dog. A BIG ONE."

So we've continued on in this manner for all these years.

Then last week happened.

Nothing in particular has changed or occurred. I don't have a clue what has happened to my brain. Maybe the prozac; I don't know. But suddenly Jason has been on this blue heeler kick and for whatever reason I said, "Okay, let's look at blue heelers."

So I've been looking up dogs, and it turns out Jason is incredibly particular. And it's not even like there is some list I can go by; Jason simply can look at the dog and know if it's "his dog" or not. This one is too tall. This one is to small. This one prompted Jason to say "I will not be able to fucking sleep knowing that dog is in our house."

I love all three of those dogs, so someone should go adopt them so I don't have to worry about them any more.

Anyway, we think we've found a dog we like. We've filled out adoption applications. Yesterday I finally got up the nerve to tell my mom about it. My mom is the lady who always says no, a thousand times no, we don't need a cat/dog/goat and if we get a cat/dog/goat she's going to throw herself off the roof of her house in protest.

What did she say yesterday? "Well, you know, I've had dogs all my life. I can't argue with you."

WHAT?!? So all I could think was, "Well I HAVE to send the adoption applications in NOW with all that flippant gauntlet-throwing she's doing right there."

Listen, the truth is I had dogs and cats throughout my childhood. I had Poochie, a little round mutt who followed me everywhere and took care of me and was a hell of a watch dog (the poor UPS guy). Then I had Ruppleduffie, a huge lab mix who was goofy and spent most of his puppyhood sleeping on top of a large basket of pecans. Now I'm not going to lie and say that I took complete care of them and my mom never had to lift a finger- she did the majority of the feeding and bathing and taking care of those dogs. But I helped. And I loved them intensely, and played with them, and pet them and stroked them and talked to them and took their pictures and dressed them in doll clothes. They were my pets.

Since my head has been so clear lately I've re-evaluating a lot, including how I'm raising Reed. I think we're doing a pretty good job, but I realized that I don't want him to grow up, to be a six year old and then a nine year old and then a twelve year old without ever having helped to raise a dog. I don't want him to grow up without knowing what it feels like to love a dog, to take care of it, to see its happy face when he comes home from school. Kane and Jude have had a wide assortment of pets, a few at our house and a lot at their mom's house, and I sometimes worry that their mom is teaching them that pets are disposable and you can just move on to the next one if the first one doesn't work out. I think maybe this might be good for them, too.

Last night I asked Reed, "Would you like to have a dog that lives here with us?" He got very excited very fast and said, "Yes! I wish I had a dog. I would like to have a dog."

So I guess that settles it. Reed is a normal kid and my mom and I are crazy as shit-house rats. Congratulations to us all.

Part Five.

So this is even more of the story of our trip to Costa Rica. Here are Parts One, Two, Three, and Four. This is Part Five. And we're only starting the fourth day of the trip!

We wake up Saturday morning and go to a farmer's market in the park in Montezuma and buy things like cherry tomatos, pineapple, cheese, and lettuce. Jason and I head back to the house and hit the pool, while Kristi and Chris head to Cobano and the MegaSuper (their "big box" grocery store). They come home bearing rum, papaya, mango, bananas, and avocados, and we have a nice lunch of sandwiches and fruit rummy smoothies.

That evening we get dolled up and go to Chico's Bar in Montezuma, hoping mainly to have a good time, but also to maybe see Joaquin and Casey again. By now we've figured out that Montezuma consists of about two small blocks of mostly restaurants, and Chico's is the only disco in town. We see fire dancers in the street; the boy who made our necklaces is one of them. We go out and dance the night away. We decide to roam the streets in search of our famous friends and step out to policemen everywhere, carrying huge guns and blocking off the street. We ask if we can get out to go home. They politely escort us out. I guess we were all in agreement that they didn't need a bunch of gringos gumming up the works of whatever the hell they were doing. I have had too many margaritas and I pass out when we get home.

Sunday morning Jason goes for a walk and unwittingly tries to thumb a right from Casey Affleck. Apparently Casey Affleck doesn't pick up hitchhikers.

We decide to visit Rainsong, a wildlife sanctuary in Cabuya. We were told it was a five minute drive from Montezuma. We set out, Kristi and I bouncing around in the back of the truck, and drive. And drive. And drive. After about 20 minutes of driving, we stop for directions. Yes, we're going the right way. Kristi has figured out that the loud banging of the rear hatch isn't so bad if we prop our feet against it. We keep going for about 5 more minutes 'til we find it. We go in and play with baby squirrels, a friendly ant eater, a sleepy kinkajou, a lonely howler monkey named Mona Lisa, and lots of other animals.

We leave and decide to eat lunch in Cabuya, a tiny town with one restaurant. Jason and I order mahi mahi, and Kristi and Chris order sushi. They have one waitress serving the whole place, and one large table keeps ordering beers, and the waitress has to go across the street (to someone's house? a market?) to get the beers every time they order them. At one point she goes to get them four more beers, and as soon as she gets back they say, "Oh, wait, we need one more!" and she goes across again to get one more beer. This is the kind of job that I would have no-call no-showed when I was her age (maybe 18). It takes FOREVER for the sushi to come. It comes, and then we leave.

Back to the house. Swimming and naps. Kristi has a nasty rash on her arms, red and bumpy and hot and itchy. She worries that it's a flesh-eating bacteria. She takes two Claritin and drinks beer until she sings a song about her butt and goes to bed.

The next day is the worst, hardest, hottest, scariest of the whole trip for me. What happens? Tune in Monday.

Scratch, scratch, scritch scratch.

So last night, totally exhausted, Jason and I snuggled up in bed around ten. Jason wasn't in the best mood because I had nagged him to fold a load of jeans while I washed the dinner dishes, so when we started hearing the scampering, scraping and scratching above our heads he wasn't happy.

I've mentioned the squirrels fucking in our ceiling; last night they weren't so much fucking as squirreling- scratching about, making noises, just generally making angry the man of the house. Jason got up and banged on the ceiling a few good times, which did nothing whatsoever. He went poking about and stepped into our closet to have a listen from there; he said, "Buffy. Come here."

I stepped into the closet and followed his pointing finger to discover a little hole in the ceiling, a little place where something had popped or scratched or scraped through the popcorn.

I have to tell you, I NEARLY SHAT MYSELF. Now I can't stop thinking about squirrels and rodents and RABIES, RABIES, people. It has made it's way into the house!! It has GUTS and GUMPTION and I will run away if I see it. Jason jammed a small suitcase underneath it so whatever has been poking its rabies-laden nose through there can do so no longer, but now I'm thinking, it'll just do it again! Next thing I know there will be little holes everywhere in the ceiling, with little noses and eyes poking through! GROSS. SCARY. I mean, what we heard last night was likely the sounds of the next hole, the next stop on the way to Buffy's insanity.

It's a short trip.