don’t think you’re smart tryin’ to blend the good stuff from the bottom
the $6.99 pint.
da bull’s car! brah.
how you make me speechless
“kiddo, what would you do if you saw zombies running at us?”
camano island, wa
a new year and some new poppies
at least you don’t have to date it for 3 months before you find out.
always watching
a note from my wife:
When Seneca was recovering from surgery he took this picture of Nico against the window. He is waiting for me to get home from work. Every day at the same time (an hour before I actually arrive) he appears at the window and waits. When I come in the door the stillness captured in this shot erupts into quivering muscles, furtive licks, little circling leaps. Adoration that is naked and absolute.
This dog. The one that leans into you to soak up the smell of you, who would crawl into your very skin to be closer. Who selects treats so tenderly from your hand that you can feel every nuance of velvety jowl and spindly chin hair. Whose sighs and snores echo through the house. The one who chews doorframes, eyeglasses, cupboard knobs, hooves from plastic horses, baby bottle nipples.
This dog. The one who can select a single novel from high up on the bookshelf, whose nemesis is the middle-aged woman who delivers the mail, who dragged the newish camera from the kitchen table and relieved himself on the new bed, the new couch. The one who is so gentle with the baby, even though he was once the baby.
This dog. The one who seems to be part human, who can sense your every need for comfort and yearns to walk with you alone. The one who can sulk for hours, head hanging low, jowls mashed into the floor. The one who vomits on the lone patch of carpet, basks in the driveway like some great jungle cat, sinks to the bottom of the lake like a stone and has systematically removed the eyes from every stuffed animal.
This dog. The one who is so terribly fearful (even five years later) of being alone. The one you can hear drinking from three rooms away, who bears the brunt of a tired and overworked household, that must wait until every dripping dish is wiped, every toy put away.
We’ll never give up on this dog. Every day he waits. For us to come home from work, for the baby to wake from his nap, for his too-short walk, for a time when we can again hike the big Blue Mountain. He waits at the door to the bathroom and at the backyard gate. He waits for food to fall from above, for a soft touch, kind word, the merest glance. So. Seldom. Given.
His love is not conditional on whether we keep our food in the bowl, or walk calmly beside the stroller or remember not to bark when the baby is sleeping. And when we come home from wherever we’ve been, in the dusk or dark, even if the porchlight is not on, he will be there against the window, waiting.
I like burgers, daddy!
lucky bastard………you’re welcome adrian.
happy father’s day
father of different pepe, my pepe