Jack Otis and Casey McCrea, Geniuses

If they had business cards, that’s what would be printed on them.

What? Yes, I know dogs don’t have business cards. In no small part because they have no thumbs. But I’m thinking about getting them little tags for their collars because they’re so, so smart.

What? No, I don’t believe for a second that we’re the only family who gave their dogs middle names.

Not only are my dogs smart, they are terribly aware. Observe:

lookingthewrongway — Looking the wrong way.

We’re puggles. We’re so smart. Hey, look! Grass!

missingthedeer — What was twenty feet from them in the other direction.

No, we don’t need to look the other way. What could possibly be in the other direction? We’re puggle geniuses.

deer — Completely at ease, with good reason.

Nothing gets by us! We’re geniuses! Did I mention we’re puggles?

Below is the deer’s reaction to me taking pictures. My dogs actually did not notice the deer until after they stood up.

Then Casey lunged, and the deer bolted. Mama went one way, babies went the other way.

I say babies, but they’re practically grown. They were babies last year and we would see them in this part of the cemetery while we were walking the dogs. The dogs didn’t see the deer then, either.

Now the babies are losing their fawnliness.

Yep, any day now these fawns will realize that they’re full grown. That they probably should get full-time jobs; maybe go to summer school.

blendin — You can't see me. I blend right in.

don'tlook — Don't look at me. Don't look at me. Don't look at me.

They’ll realize how awesome it would be if they started cleaning the kitchen without being asked and stopped leaving their shoes in a death trap pile at the bottom of the stairs so their stepmama deer doesn’t break her damn neck.

They’ll buy their stepmama deer Godiva.

The extra dark truffle bar.

Hmmm. Where was I?

Oh right.

Geniuses.

Unless you’re in an ugly contest

The entire contents of #5’s room are spread out over the living room. The Puggles are a mess about it. They go back and forth between climbing the mountain of clothes on the couch and stamping their feet at us because everything’s different.

The reason for this is that we’re painting #5’s room. And by we, I mean everyone in my family except for me.

I walked in there today and the girls were painting each other, not fully hip to just how hard it is to get wall paint off one’s person. And hair. Ah well, they know now.

Casey was wagging her whole self at me and I rubbed her ears and said, as I often do, “You are too cute!”

To which #5 replied, “You can never be ‘too cute’. Unless you’re in an ugly contest.”

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I made it to the day off again, end of my second week of my extra job.

I had noticeably less energy today than I did last week.

Also, far less patience.

But I went to yoga. We made popcorn and milkshakes and are watching Harry Potter Two: The Chamber of Secrets. I’m blessed that my husband did laundry so that I don’t have to go to the shop naked tomorrow. I’m lucky as hell that I got the day off today anyway.

Here’s why I didn’t have to mix my show today:

Thanks for doing Sunday’s shows so I can have a day off and not be an entirely hateful human being. These pictures are from the shop build that we’re doing together. He’s Vato’s dad, the teacup chihuahua with the bark control collar that #5 liked so much.

He’s a rack-building ninja. And a hand model.

Also? I was totally coveting his baby drill there. I loaded my current show in so long ago that even power tool technology has lapped me. Most stagehands in New York, even if they’re running a regular show, will pick up extra work building shows like this or else loading in those shows into the theaters. I did some of that, and then I got a bunch of kids. I’m finding myself having to replace a lot of work-related things (tools, work boots, pants I can actually work in- uh, not to mention underwear). Though I was pleased to discover that my old tool belt fits me again. I outgrew it for a couple years.

And Lo, the new Makita!

I haven’t been this worked up about a power tool in a long time. I think I may turn my old DeWalt over to #5.

I have a feeling he would like that.

Sh*t My Dog Eats

This is Casey.

Here is a partial list of contraband items she has eaten or attempted to eat so far in her two and a half years on earth:

The last half of the Gouda.

The face off a plastic polar bear.

Nails (as in threepenny, not finger-)

Poop (confirmed: deer, dog, and human).

Used Kleenexes.

Used Band-aids.

Half a roast chicken, including bones.

Rubber bands.

A tax bill.

The cable remote.

Feminine hygiene products.

Five single flip flops, each from a different $4.99 Old Navy pair.

One Keene sandal, men’s, size 11, $100 pair.

A significant hole in the sleeve of a $500 Ralph Lauren suit jacket.

Did I mention nails?

Thumbtacks, with and without a plastic coating.

Lots and lots of candy. Including chocolate. Including wrappers.

Hairballs pulled out of the tub drain.

Pencils, pens, and magic markers.

A Whopper.

Popsicle sticks.

Glass Christmas ornaments.

The same lamp cord, three times, miraculously unplugging it from the wall before finally biting through the insulation.

Bottle caps: plastic preferred, but metal will do in a pinch.

Several of the little red balls from my throw pillow that contain a hooked metal center.

The tasty plastic squeaker heart in every squeaky toy we’ve ever given them.

A backpack.

My lunch.

My dinner.

My breakfast.

My gross, sweat-drenched Bikram yoga clothes.

My coffee.

CC’s beer.

The last of the Manchego.

Books, though mostly just the corners.

Her own bed.

Her own crate.

Her own harness.

Jack’s face (not in its entirety).

A watch band.

A hand and foot off a Troll doll.

Several Webkinz, the filling of which looks like a terrible case of worms when it’s coming out the other end.

The couch.

Too much of the woodwork in the kitchen.

Not enough of our hideous kitchen wallpaper.

A bag of Oreos that she reached after figuring out how to open the pantry.

Bacon, half a pound, and the paper towel it was draining on. Though not the plate.

One-third of a sweet sopressata salami, which, having been consumed so soon after the aforementioned half pound of bacon (about 36 hours later), she immediately vomited back up, and then re-ate.

What sh*t does your dog (or child, or significant other) eat?