Jebediah

This is a picture of the Jeeps. In the background, over our oh-so-hip vintage 70's avocado colored stove, is a framed poster (also vintage) of Linus marching with a protest sign that says, "Help stamp out things that need stamping out!" That poster—not the poster itself so much as the fact that he had it displayed in such a prominent location—was one of the first things I loved about Mr. Amazing, aka "the boyfriend," or Mr. A for short.

The Jeeps is his dog. Our dog. He's our dog. Sometimes, I regret to admit, I do suffer a bit of Evil Stepmother Syndrome. My darling Taterboy can do whatever he wants and I still feel all googley-eyed with love for him, but when the Jeeps jumps off my bed to reveal a brown stinky skid mark on my pillowcase ... or follows me around the house insistently jabbing his nose up into my crotch from behind in order to steer me in the direction of his box of Milk Bones ... or breaks into the kitchen garbage and spreads its contents all over the floor AGAIN ... sometimes I feel challenged.

But I do love him. We have a million pet names for him, too—Jeepers, the Jeeps, Mister Jeepieman, the Jeepinator, Mister P'Dee, and most recently, Jebediah the Dog Prospector, because he's constantly on the hunt for anything that may possibly be even remotely edible. He can't help it if he gets into the garbage sometimes—he's a prospector! There's gold in them there garbage cans. Et cetera.

Jebediah is getting old. Last night when I was sitting in front of the tv updating a website for one of my clients, he jumped up onto the couch next to me (with great effort) and started trying to make himself comfortable. When I first started getting to know him, he wasn't a cuddly dog at all. But these days, I don't know if it's because he's getting used to me, or because he's getting old, or if it's just because he's trying to stay warm, it seems like every time I sit down he wants to be right up there next to me. So last night I wrapped him up in two down sleeping bags and tucked them in around under his sides, and rolled up the end of one to stuff under his head like a little pillow, and he was so happy he heaved an enormous sigh and fell asleep instantly.

For Christmas I'm making him a custom insulated dog vest out of a very warm little kids' jacket we got at the thrift store. He's never worn clothes before but I'm predicting that once he realizes how much warmer he is with the vest, he's going to really love it.

Weird ... it smells like somebody in my office is cooking bacon. Why would someone be cooking bacon in an office at 6:15 p.m. on a Friday night?

Listening to: Mustang Sally – Wilson Pickett