Shitty.

Cute dog? Or harbinger of evil?

Holy Moses but I was hungry on my way home today. I have been fighting a jones for beef which, despite my growing moral ambivalence about eating meat, I feel driven to indulge. It just won't go away. The butcher was closed and, though I find supermarket meat sort of insipid (moral condemnation! and meat snobbery!), I stopped at Tesco. (In my defense, I feel like if I'm going to eat something's flesh it should at least be so delicious it makes your eyes roll back in your head. Yes, I'm quite self-righteous really. And a hypocrite.)

I have this little reverie I find very engrossing and satisfying (don't judge) where I think through - precisely and in entirety - every step of the preparation of a meal on my way home, like "First, I'm going to rinse the x and put them on to boil, then I'll put the y in a pan to brown, not too hot..." but in very great detail, down to the order in which everything will be chopped, rinsed, cooked and the rest. I am particularly keen on the correct order for maximum efficiency. I even think about how large or small the dice should be (eg carrots smaller than potatoes) so that all the vegetables in the dish will be cooked at the same time. Maybe it's a little odd that I get so much pleasure from that but chacun a son gout right? So by the time I got home I was really very much invested in the meal orchestrations.

I was not expecting to find the boy dog (the evil one) trapped in the guest room, where all my clothes and shoes live. On his travels, he often head-butts the door and if it isn't latched he gets in and it closes behind him. He is very anxious and will punish you for leaving him, barking or pissing on stuff if you're not very careful about the details. The myriad of obscure preparations involved in leaving him alone are akin to alignment of the planets. Before I left I took him on an exhausting walk, gave him half a valium, half-zipped him into his little Travel Pod with two filled Kongs, made sure all the correct doors were closed and the others were open, left the radio on, filled the extra water dish (anxiety+panting=thirst), kept my keys from jingling, did a thorough Native American sage-smoke cleanse and the chicken entrails said I was good to go. I didn't double check the guest bed door *bangs head hard on floor over and over again*.

He must have panicked when he couldn't get out and I have reason to believe he then had a really huge runny shit on the rug, just before he ran in circles around the room, lavishly embellishing himself and every surface with poo including, delightfully, whole grains of rice (now poo-covered) which had been mixed into his breakfast.

So. That room needed a little clear-out.

I guess I'll do the beef tomorrow.