Still not sure what Jones thinks about E. She is a bundle of new delicious smells, so there’s that, but it’s as if he already knows she’s a core member of the pack. Because after we unstrapped the feedbag and made our tardy way into the dog park, Jones raced toward us and jumped his highest circus dog jumps to confirm she was there. Then he wouldn’t leave us despite the friendly beagle’s overtures, and kept looking up at her in L.’s arms. One slow trip around the perimeter was all I was good for, though, and the prospect of no real walks for about six weeks is a drag for all interested parties, alas.
Cat poop consumed: no
Jennifer Lopez once described herself as having “a big life,” and I’ve puzzled over the meaning of this expression ever since. A lot of dancing and singing and being out and about with good hair? Having a team of people to manage it all? At this end of the river path one wonders if there is a relationship between the size of one’s dwelling and the size of one’s life. Is life really more fabulous with three sets of French doors and patio furniture that cost more than my car? My situation seems to be inverted: my house used to feel too big for just me and Mr. Jones, and the size of my life could be described as small to medium by J. Lo’s standard (no line of fashion sportswear but good hair, mostly). Now we’re crowded comfortably together with Ramona, L. and many vinyl records, and soon another roommate will move in at the end of the month. Like Snoopy’s doghouse, we contain multitudes.
Cat poop consumed: no
