writing rengeek magpie mind

December 2014

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sf doctor who meant to be?

as i walk these streets i know

It's finally Spring in New England (I got out of Wisconsin just in time, apparently; I beat the blizzard by a day) and I get to be home with my dog for a whole three weeks before I head back to the Midwest.



With spring come the historical re-enactors. There's a pile of them camped out on the town common currently, firing off muskets and terrifying my poor dog. He would like you to know that he is not a gun dog. He doesn't mind thunderstorms in the least, but the musketry was bad enough that he had to climb into my lap and tremble.

I was half tempted to go out there and give them a piece of my mind, but I suppose it wouldn't be neighborly. And they probably have a permit or something.

The bugler playing Taps horribly was more frightening to me. But I'm not a Briard.

ETA: Oh, god, now they're playing fiddle. Badly.

Comments

My sympathies. The old man here doesn't care for fireworks OR thunder, and the space under my desk is big enough for my legs, or a 70lb moosedog, but really not both. And giving him an enormous bone only makes him forget the problem for the three minutes it takes him to inhale it. I keep thinking that I should get some Dog Prozac or something...