2000-03-08
Dear Diary:

The man who floats my boat has decided nothing says "I love you" quite like a cement object. The objects have been getting steadily larger and I'm not quite sure what that means ...

Ed, love object extraordinaire. It started with Ed here, who spends the non-winter months perched on the enormous rock behind our home. Each time I drive into the yard I'm greeted by his smiling visage and I have to admit that although he's been a family member for years now, he still makes me laugh.

But then Ed reminds me of the ugliest dog on the planet and the time I took my honey home to meet my dad.

Randy, holder of the coveted title ugliest dog on the planet.  Clearly separated at birth from Ed. I'm afraid a picture does not begin to capture the ugliness of Randy, my parents' Boston Terrier. To get the whole Boston Terrier experience you have to go multimedia.

These dogs are bred to have smashed in noses which means they have perpetual breathing problems and snuffle endlessly. They also get a lot of crud in their massive bulgy eyes and oh, did I mention the endless stream of doggy drool cascading from their mouths?

Randy was fiercely territorial. The idea of defending the house to the death was not an abstract notion but something hard wired into that wee brain of his. It was pretty clear to me that he had decided that if dying was going to be involved, he wasn't going to be the one to do it, either.

So anyhow, we pull up into my parents' yard, Paul and I, and he's already nervous. See, it's 1971 and Paul's a university dropout from Quebec with hair past his shoulders. Hair like that was still kinda unusual in small town Ontarey-arey-ario. My dad was a cop and had definite ideas about what hair like that meant.

So Paul and I are standing on the back step gathering our courage when Randy senses an alien presence and rockets out to the porch.

This is a dog who, when he's on all fours, does not graze my significant other's knees. But Randy is so full of doggy testosterone that he somehow manages to spring high enough up in the air that he is looking my 6'2" husband-to-be in the eyes with each leap. Did I mention the insane barking, foaming mouth and the way the glass in the door was bowing? (I would be describing the dog, of course, and not the man.)

Well, there was a moment when I wondered if Paul was going to turn and run, but the guy proved his grit and didn't back down. My dad came out, called off the dog, and things went surprisingly well.

But then, I suppose after Randy, meeting my dad didn't seem quite so scary, eh ...

-- Marn

Old Drivel - New Drivel


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Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -


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This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine.

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�2000, 2001, 2002 Marn. This is me, dagnabbit. You be you.