I have been painting flowers. In the interest of keeping it local (and cheap), I have only been painting flowers I can find growing wild around the neighborhood, walking around with scissors down my waistband (for snipping plants) and wondering if I'd get in trouble if I stabbed someone with them in self-defense. Knives are not okay, but scissors shouldn't count as a deadly weapon, right? Doesn't matter, if some weirdo tackles me while I'm out walking, they're getting the scissors. Thinking wouldn't enter into it.
Zenny followed me out to find flowers the other day, and we were walking around the neighborhood, casing the gardens and talking about the legality of scissors, when a weirdo tackled me. The weirdo was a dog, though, so I caught him in my arms and just stood there while he panted in my ear and hung over my shoulder like a big yellow baby. Zenny started laughing.
"What do I do?!"
"I don't know!"
So we walked home with the dog. "Hey Leif, what kind of flower is this?" we yelled when we got to our back yard. The boy came out and immediately ran back inside to get a tennis ball. Where did he get a tennis ball? All young people have a tennis ball kicking around somewhere in their room, I guess. The dog had no tags, but seemed well cared for, so after chasing the ball for a bit and having some water and a snack, we clipped a cat harness loosely around his neck and walked him up the road, heading for the vet to check for an identification chip.
"Lead us to your home!" we told him. He did not. He led us to the house with yodeling huskies and peed on the fence, then he shook off the cat leash and ran down the road like an idiot. "I am not adopting a dog who can't help solve mysteries," I told Zenny, "'Where do I live?' seems like a mystery a dog should be able to solve." A green truck drove up slowly and stopped next to us.
"Lose your dog?" the driver asked.
"No, we found him and we were taking him to the vet to see if he had a chip. Do you know who he belongs to?"
"Nah, I just saw him earlier so I went to get my truck, figured I'd hang on to him and post signs."
"Right on." The dog came running back to us with his tongue flapping behind him, so we picked him up and stuffed him through the guy's window. He turned around and drove away with the dog grinning in his lap. We walked home and saw the green truck parked in a driveway three houses down from ours, so if anything bad happens to that dog, we know where he lives. And I have scissors. He seems okay, though, I just didn't recognize him with a shirt on; he usually comes out to check his mail with only saggy gym shorts on, and years of dealing with the public has caused me to develop willful face blindness. It's easier to cheerfully help people who have been assholes to you if you can't be bothered to remember what they look like. It means I am absolutely useless when describing people to the police, though. No details or colors, just general vibe: "scary screaming man on a bike", "woman with no pants trying to poop on the stairs", "big, completely naked, thought it was a sasquatch", etc.*
And that was our very brief taste of life as dog owners. We are not prepared.
*actual incidents
In other news, the kids have progressed from drawing to their first painting lesson with the online atelier program.
Really pleased with how they did. Neither of them are clicking into obsessive mode and shooting off on a trajectory to become artists, but trying to learn a thing is all it takes to be a more interesting person. Being good at it doesn't matter as much.
Dogs are so...happy. That one was smart, too.
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