Around here, I know April is going to be a windy month, something to do with the warmer temperatures and the melting snow, but I don’t really expect the wind to roar all October as it has this year.
Last night it blew and blew and blew a bit harder, precipitating a wisp of snow that is probably still enough to count as the first snow of the season. Inside the house, where it is 6:30 and we’ve already taken on enough activity to warrant a full day, Oz has continued with his mission to soil every carpet in the house by throwing up yesterday afternoon all over my bedroom, all over Lynn’s bedroom at 4 this morning, and most recently on a narrow hall runner before finally testing out the permeability of the wood floor.
I rummaged through the entire cabinet of pet medicines to come up with a Cerenia tablet; we will see if this helps. Usually in situations like this he completely loses his appetite, but he seems ragingly hungry. Except that giving him anything else that he can promptly disgorge on some floor he hasn’t yet marked seems like a horrible idea.
In the meantime, Marrakesh, perhaps bestirred by the wind, once again has no idea what he wants, but he knows it’s something. I have been listening to his feeder open and close since 5, and he has been out to the garage at least twice. Did I say it’s just now 6:30?
Na Ki’o, whose avarice keeps him close at hand when Marrakesh is near food, is slowly finding a substitute for his favorite game of Stair, getting up on the mud room bench and wiggling around while I rub his belly there. It’s not quite the same, because he can’t just sort of slide his way down, stair by stair, but it’s something. Something more tangible than whatever something it is that Marrakesh is always on the lookout for.
Welcome to a new house, eh?
Yesterday Oz and I, probably right after he unbeknownst to me tossed his cookies in four different spots on my carpet that was beautiful back before he completely skunked it — why do we have dogs? — headed out to run errands, one of which was going to be checking at an automotive store for a tool box.
Just before we did this, my stepfather sent a picture of my dad’s tool box, the one I mentioned yesterday, still in use but with an offer to let me have it. This was a very generous and tempting offer, but I determined to give one more try here in town. Oz and I headed into town and drove right past Tractor Supply before I thought, “Tractor Supply!” and drove around the back way to get there.
I don’t know why I don’t think of Tractor Supply more often. It’s Kara’s favorite store, but then I don’t have flocks of chickens and ducks to buy for. (Good thing — I can barely manage a dog and two cats while Kara has that plus another cat plus chickens plus ducks.) It ought to be Oz’s favorite store too, because right on the front door it says, “Well-behaved dogs on a leash always welcome.”
Except that yesterday he wasn’t particularly well-behaved, barking at me in complaint about being left behind before I could even open his door, whining and trying to go see another dog clear across the store, and not very interested in tool boxes, of which there were two like the ones I had found, discontinued, all over the internet. One had three drawers and the other four, and both were under $60.
I don’t know why I don’t think of Tractor Supply more often.
Then we went to the health food store, where the sign on the door smartly says, “No dogs except certified service animals,” so Oz waited in the car while I shopped and forgot the can of beans I meant to buy and the almond milk Lynn wanted me to buy but didn’t tell me about.
Once home I ransacked garage shelves to compile tools in one place, organizing a tiny bit as I went along. Some of it’s hard: does sandpaper count as a tool? Should rubber washers go with the random bits of hardware or over by the sprinklers? Why do we have two paint sprayers and six cans of WD-40? (Technically, you can never have too many cans of WD-40, and one of them is a can of Liquid Wrench anyway.)
Then I abandoned the tool project without putting so much as a single tool in the new box (most of the tools are covered in old garage detritus and ought to be cleaned before they get organized into a shiny new box) and focused instead on a two-month objective: fitting Lynn’s car in the garage.
But Lynn was working in Crested Butte, so I used my car for the test, and now it’s my car safe inside from the big wind and little snow. Did you catch that? Safe inside. Yes, I inched and inched and am closer than I ought to be to microwave #3 (technically, microwave #6 if you count the Walmart purchases 1 and 2 and the purloined loaner from the Almont P.O.), sitting undented (for the moment) awaiting installation.
[Dusty does not yet know it’s awaiting installation. He hasn’t followed up with us at all, which isn’t looking good for his availability, and I was waiting to contact him, hoping against hope that Mike from True Value would really mean it when he said my vanity was scheduled to arrive last week. He didn’t really mean it.]
So we can fit one car in the garage if we drive very, very carefully, and the quest for a tool box, which wasn’t supposed to be a quest at all but nonetheless was, is over but for the tools and a place to set it. (It’s tall, and you have to open the top to get the drawers to slide out. Maybe I created more of a problem than I solved.)
I have now located yet another spot on my carpet despoiled by Oz (I can’t tell if this was pre- or post-anti-nauseau meds); Na Ki’o’s blood sugar was screamingly high, suggesting that every time Marrakesh can’t decide what he wants and opens his food dish, Ki’o is there to help; and Marrakesh has been out, in, out, in and currently wants out again.
I’m blaming it all on the wind, which at least one of our cars is now safe from.
Don’t worry: the Sterilite box is empty and serving as a buffer between the car and projects that Dusty still needs to complete.