So. The dogs and I have been landscaping and garden planting, and I must admit that I find myself both impressed with our results, and, likewise, satisfied with the efforts. The reasons I’m impressed with the results are obvious—good design, personal preferences considered all around, and strong team participation.
“No, no, shithead, get ones that already have tomatoes on them. I’m hungry.”
That was the Squirt when we were over to the Aqua Fria Nursery yesterday choosing garden plants. If you know anything about us Johnsons, you know that we are absolute freaks for homegrown foodstuffs and totally bonkers for tomatoes raised by our own hands. Squirtie and I were in the big greenhouse where the nursery keeps the dozens-of-varieties of heirloom and regionally-adaptive tomato plants that thrive here. We were arguing about “is it smarter to get healthy, barren plants or weak ones already fruited”, and I was pushing for strong starter plants. The diminutive brown-furred smart mouth wanted weak plants pre-adorned with snacks for the ride home.
“Sir,” a not all that friendly voice said from the open entry in the plastic-covered greenhouse. “There, you, sir, the big man in the dirty shirt with the noisy dog. Do you also own a white dog that looks like that Star Wars gremlin?”
“Why that would be my Yoda, sir. Isn’t he a cute little shitbird?”
“That ugly mutt of yours just ate our last three flats of Thai basil, five one-gallon spinach, and is now started on the Greek oregano. Will you be paying cash or credit, sir?”
When we finally had a tabulation on the damages, I told the Squirt as we were checking out, I said, “Well, at least his farts won’t smell so bad. Asshole’s been eating the stink weed growing behind the shed and he’s had the gag gas.”
My puppy giggled and said, “Yea, he’ll be farting Pad Thai and spanikopita gas. If he gets a-hold of the Italian parsley, he’ll be an international fart festival.”
Reality is often different than imaginations. I was awakened last night by bedsheets billowed with rancid dog gas and a pile of plant stems that had been puked half on the edge of my bedside rug and the other half on my socks. Which reminds me.
Am I the only one who has become more tolerant of stuff as I age? Ten years ago, just the thought of a mouthful of short dog hairs would stir my gag reflex. Now, I simply think of it as roughage. I don’t gak up fur balls like a cat, but I do often crap small patches of brown and white fabric. I clean up animal turds as a routine and don’t even bitch so long as it’s solid.
OK, stop. As I sit here bragging on my maturities, I realize that my growing tolerances are with animals and I’m becoming less tolerant of asswipe humans. The number of humans I want to thump on the nose grows daily. If I’m ever to meet that right-wing goat fucker, Texas Senator Ted “Cruzin’ for a Bruzin’” Crudz, I’mma wind-up a nose thwack like never before delivered.
Anyway, I was sitting here early this morning with my first cuppa Joe. It was a quite strong and bitter brew, my favorite. As I gazed at the small, just-planted vegetable garden through the open window of my office, the dogs were out back standing—tails wagging—with their snouts jammed through the small crack between the back gates here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. Squirt left the gates and walked over to push her head through the rabbit fencing I placed around the tomato plants. She grabbed what appeared to be the largest Cherokee Purple that was a week from harvest and trotted back to the fence. She pushed the dark purple orb through the crack, wagged her tail and ran toward the house.
I watched as the goat dog started grazing in the dill and mint section and heard tiny puppy toe nails ticking on the wood floors. The Squirt skidded the corner from the hallway into the office, jumped into my lap, planted front paws on my chest, jammed her face into mine and said to me, she said, “Shit, shower and shave, asshole, and put on your tights and that new Humane Society tee shirt you got from the animal shelter last weekend. We’re going to go yoga.”
“Fuck yoga, little lady, we’re cleaning this house today. We’ve got company coming the next three weekends, including Mother.”
Squirt jumped off my lap and headed from the room. As she left, she flipped over her shoulder, she said to me, “Fine with me, shithead. But just so you know, Rooster the Dalmatian knows a Chow dog from Second Street who knows Ali McGraw’s dog, and Khan—the Chow dog—says that Ali does yoga most days at the place up the street.”
That was six hours, one shit-shower-and-shave, and four hour-long yoga classes ago, and who would name a Dalmatian “Roster”? I’m cramped from ears-to-knee caps and I can’t feel my pecker. Balls are swollen from the natural squishing that happens with some of those stupid yoga positions, but that’s not a happy ball swelling. Happy ball swellings occur differently, more naturally.
Anyway, I couldn’t last long enough to see if Ms. McGraw made it to an afternoon yoga class today and now I’m too sore to clean house. And that reminds me of that tantra yoga shit—you know, that yoga wherein you’re supposed to have six-hour sex.
I now believe it’s possible, and that reminds me to tell you something that I have already forgotten. Fucking ADD. I’m having a cold Carta Blanca while I decide about dinner. Manana, y’all.