It would figure that my busiest time of the year at work happened to coincide with my move. It was…um…hellish.
So I’m sure you can understand that I’ve managed to watch three seasons of Breaking Bad on Netflix in the matter of a couple weeks. Yes, I’ve used Walter White as a distraction to veg out and keep from finishing unpacking those last few pesky boxes that are filled with God-only-knows what. Where did I get all these Mardi Gras beads, and loose change?
When I’m not busy wondering about the fate of Walter and Jesse, I’ve been trying to ride my bike. My little brother’s freshmen football games are about .7 miles from my house. So I especially like to hop on the trusty old bike and head on over there to watch. Then, a few hours later, I head home. But these visits to his games make me want a dog.
Specifically, I want this dog:
Wilbur is at a local pound where a friend of mine works. I’ve been to visit him a couple of times and dogs don’t get much sweeter than this guy. They also don’t get much lazier. Apparently no one told Wilbur that Pit Bulls are tough, athletic dogs. (Don’t be fooled by his soccer ball, this guy is not into running.) This guy is a big baby. He loves other dogs, and he looooves the ladies. Wilbur–whose pound is right next to the high school–has made a few trips to the school softball games and he’s a hit!
For the time being, though, I’m working on getting my scaredy-cat, Jerry, to learn to co-exist with dogs. I’ve volunteered to take my friend’s dog for a few days while she’s on her honeymoon, which will be the longest Jerry’s been around a dog. He can hide under a bed for a day or so, but over the course of a long weekend we’ll learn whether or not he can come to understand, “This dog doesn’t want to eat me.”