Ghandi Pan

Our puppy isn't eating. Yesterday afternoon we filled his bowl with kibbles, put it on the floor with a "taduh!" (because that's how he likes it) and then there it sat, all day long and all evening long and all night long, and then this morning when we would have normally given him a fresh bowl of food, his yesterday food was still just sitting there, his lunch from yesterday, so sad and dejected.

When this happens The Holbs gets down on his hands and knees, scoops kibble into his manly hands, and somehow Peter is up for eating then, it's some kind of beautiful male bonding. But this time, even the love between a man and his dog was not enough to make the Pan eat, and thus the bowl is, sadly, still full.

Brandon has concluded that Peter is, in fact, fasting for a very noble cause as of yet unknown to mankind. It's probably canine rights or the political state of the Hamas in the Middle East (he did once pee on a very important newspaper, so don't think he's not well-read), but I suspect that really his protest is something closer to home.

I suspect it's the marshmallow fluff.

I've been bad lately and have been eating peanut butter and marshmallow fluff sandwiches every afternoon. I've been known to give the Pan a small corner of the bread crust, a corner with mostly peanut butter and not too much marshmallow fluff, because he looks at me with those sad puppy eyes and I am a push over. But Friday when I was having my snack, I decided the puppy probably shouldn't be eating marshmallow fluff. Peter Pan showed his feelings on the matter by peeing under my chair and pooping under the table.

I'm sure that were I to stir a tablespoon of fluff into his dinner that all would be forgiven, but he's already got me dressing on the bed so he can't bite my ankles, and the marshmallow fluff is just where I draw the line.



We went on a nice, long walk through the brownstones this evening with the puppy. The weather here has been really unbelievable, and as we strolled I counted my blessings.

It couldn't have been colder than 45 degrees, and there was an especially amazing warm breeze.

We walked down our street and up a few more, slow and easy.

We walked to the promenade and looked at the city across the river, we watched the sun set, and then, when Peter could no longer walk a straight line and got distracted by every wadded napkin on the street, we took a seat on a wooden bench outside the Connecticut Muffin and people-watched for a while. (Brandon loves to people-watch.) (Peter Pan licked the concrete.)

It was early nighttime now so we could see into apartment windows at all the artwork and fireplace mantles and book cases. And that is my favorite.

Just then a woman with a black labrador walked past. Peter immediately stood at attention. He's not used to a lot of dogs, and while he has perfect manners, you never know what the other dog is gonna bring to things, so we tightened his leash.

As soon as the lab made eye contact with Peter Pan his ears perked up and his eyes got this manic glow as he pulled against his leash. Peter stared intently at his new buddy. The owner of the lab tugged the leash and apologized profusely and brought out a treat, and suddenly the lab's attention went straight from "puppypuppypuppy!" to "treattreattreat," but for a few precious seconds, Peter and this lab were engaged in a very intense, very meaningful eye-contact conversation.

After the lab left I asked Brandon what he thought they talked about. Brandon thought about it and said, "Well, the lab said, 'Hi, are you new here?' and then Peter Pan said 'Yeah! I'm a puppy! Wanna lick my face? I have poop stuck on my bum!'"


My Favorite Is Cherry.

Today I came home from work in a funk. It was one of those days where I never totally woke up this morning, and no matter much I ate I never actually felt full.

Clearly enough was enough and I decided to take matters in my own hands.

And so when I got home I ate two Pop Tarts.

Which means I actually ate four Pop Tarts. Because of the packaging on Pop Tarts is dumb.

That is 800 calories of Pop Tarts!

I was partially relieved because finally the box was finished and I knew I would no longer be tempted. Pop Tarts are one of those things that my mom never bought us as kids because Pop Tarts demand to be eaten all in one sitting.

Which reminds me. The cereal aisle is really bad news for me. The whole dang aisle. I don't much get into ice cream or donuts or hot dogs or whatever, but Cheerios! Cheerios are the greatest and I can eat a whole box, bowl after bowl after bowl. And that's the plain Cheerios, don't even get me started on Wheaties. Ohh, Wheaties! And Frosted Mini Wheats! (I digress.) Cereals and Pop-Tarts are things that just cannot exist in my home or I will blow up like a marshmallow (ohhh yeah, marshmallows too, mmmm), and so once I stuffed the last of the Pop Tart in my face in one big piece and I knew it was over, and that I'd never buy Pop Tarts again, and that I was going to be okay, well, it was a relief.

Then The Husband came home and said, "I have a treat for you!"

And of course when I looked at the bag he was carrying I saw that unmistakeable logo on the front. POP. TARTS. (Did you see that one coming?)