Fox Business: GS increasing dues
The Girl Scouts are none of my business, but a few friends have complained about it, and I’ve seen a few articles, so rather than go outside on a beautiful day, I’m reading up.
Author: Richard Nestoff (Page 8 of 57)
Sparky took a dump on the floor in the middle of the night, but I can’t be mad at him. I might be turning into a crazy person.
I am a deep sleeper, but wake for unfamiliar noises. At 5 am, I heard something, and it wasn’t Sparky’s tap dancing on the hardwood floor as he goes for a stroll. It was enough to warrant a sweep of the house, but that didn’t last long.
In the solarium, Sparky had taken a dump in the middle of the room. It was so ludicrous, I was tempted to take a picture. It was right in the middle of the room, and larger than his head. One, let’s call it a segment, looked like an Arturo Fuente Magnum.
Last night, Sparky was uncomfortable. If I lay on the couch to watch TV, he likes to flop over so I can rub his belly. He didn’t want that. Any flopping or belly rubbing was unappreciated. Sparky even went to bed early, which is unusual. As is our routine, I took him out before I went to bed. It would usually be a quick trip, but we walked down to the bridge. Sparky wasn’t talkative on our walk, and almost reserved. I was a little concerned.
Something had him stopped up. Maybe it was the change in routine from camping over the weekend or eating too much of whatever he found in the garbage bag. Sparky is an old guy. I’m an old guy. I’d have had a cup of coffee to set me to right. He has limited options.
Sparky did the only thing he could, so I cleaned up his deposit, and went back to bed.
At about 8 am, Sparky came out to face his impending doom. He knows what he did. You can see the shame on his face in the photo. I might be crazy for empathizing, and pretending like it never happened.
After taking the photo and talking for a little while, we went out for a walk. Somehow, the little tube managed to poop again, but that was small potatoes. It may have been a performative poop to convince me that a ground hog or hobo had creeped into my house to take a dump. Fine, we’ll go with that.
Sparky was crying a little bit after I had to lecture him and put him in jail for getting into the trash.
I’m a bad parent. No, not parent. Dog owner doesn’t feel right either. I’m not trying to instill good habits or protect him from the world. He’s an adult with agency. If Sparky wanted to smoke, I wouldn’t buy him cigarettes and he’d have to do it outside, but otherwise, it’s his decision. It’s like when Hickman stays with me. I want him to be comfortable and I enjoy his company, but he can make his own decisions.
After camping, the trash bag from the camper was accessible to Sparky. I heard some rustling in the other room, but he is always doing something wacky, so none of my business. Eventually, I found that he’d chewed through the bag and lapped up a bunch of barbecue sauce.
When I would take my students to Cedar Point for Physics Day, there were two primary rules.
- Don’t do anything that reflects negatively on North Royalton High School.
- Don’t be late meeting up at the end of the day.
One year, Jess and I were in the back of the park, near Rip-Cord. Three of our students were talking to a cop. Our students had changed into morph suits. A morph suit looks like this:
Cedar Point has a rule prohibiting guests from wearing costumes. It has something to do with their affiliation with Hanna-Barbara. Jess loaned one student a jacket to cover the suit, then traveled to the lockers with that kid to get their clothes.
It was a violation of rule #1, so I had to punish them. They could serve a week of detentions, or bring ice cream for the class.
That’s how I feel about Sparky’s infraction. The bag was right there, he chewed a little hole, didn’t scatter any trash or get barbecue sauce on anything. I’m not going to feed Sparky garbage, but if he eats some, well, that’s on him. I didn’t lecture him, just pointed out the hole in the bag and put him in jail. In that photo, Sparky was laughing, but tried to cover it by licking his paws.
I left him in there for 5 minutes.
The Wild Robot is an animated movie about a robot that is shipwrecked on an island with no humans, but plenty of wild life. The robot needs a task, so ends up with the job of raising a baby goose.
IMDB seems to have been review bombed by studio shills. The movie is pretty good, but not “an instant classic” or “destined to win multiple Oscars”. The animation looks good, and occasionally great, but the animals can be too cutesy. The first half of the movie is witty, and takes some risks. It’s not the typical sugary sweet depiction of nature. In the second half, the movie is going in too many directions.
The Message for children: “work together” or “let’s all just get along”. Since everyone is an animal or robot, there are no degenerates. Nothing WOKE.
The Message for adults: Who knows? It’s stupid. The robot saves all of the animals, and gets them to be friends. It isn’t explained what the predators are going to eat. In the last third of the movie, the bad guy is the company that is responsibly attempting to recover a rogue robot.
The Wild Robot is a good movie, but not great, maybe 7/10. Puss in Boots: The Last Wish is far superior.
To be a pal, I had to buy some Girl Scout merch. Fortunately, I’ve got a dog. Here’s the unboxing video.
The first day back to the regular work-out, and I couldn’t even get to Planet Fitness without a problem. A car accident in this case.
Here’s the dash-cam video in slow-motion.
That’s all I wanted.
It’s a 40o morning, with drizzle. By the time Señor Piglet had gotten out of bed, I had a good fire going. When Sparky was done doing his dirty business outside, he came in wet and probably cold. He laid down on the dog bed between the couch and wood stove. He looked so cozy. It would be nice to have my coffee while my winsome pup lounges by my feet.
Nothing special, just Sparky screwing around in the yard.
Little piglet is enjoying the first fire of the season.
It’s not worth having a fire if the outside temperature is above 45o F outside. This morning, it was 44o and raining. It may warm up, but the rain makes it feel colder and I have to go out occasionally to check on the creek headwall. Also, the first burn has a smell as dust burns off of the stove, so it’s best to crack the patio door.
The inside temperature is 75o, so Sparky could flop anywhere in comfort. He likes the fire, and occasionally, like in the photo, does a half-wavelength tail wag. If Sparky ever learns to speak English, I’d like to ask him why. A floor wag can’t be comfortable.
Dog behaviorists say that dogs wag their tails to signal their emotional state to other members of the pack. Maybe, but why wag when nobody is around? A person, alone, doesn’t laugh or smile nearly as much if something funny happens.
My theory is that God made dogs automatically wag their tails when they are content to keep them aware of the good times. Dogs can’t count. They see one or none. If there is one food, then eat it. If there is one rabbit, then chase it. Dogs can’t count, so they can’t count their blessings.
People can choose to only acknowledge the dreary or irritating events in life. If a person gets out of the car at Aldi, and a stranger offers them a cart, that’s a minor blessing. The person can choose to see the stranger as too lazy to walk back to get their quarter, or as an unsolicited kindness. People can choose to count their blessings or harbor a grudge against the universe.
Dogs brains are not wired like that. I don’t know how they work. Maybe if Sparky hears thunder, he thinks, “yeah, this sucks, but my butt muscles are sore from all that tail wagging, so it’s been a pretty good day.”