Dog is my copilot

My dad got a puppy a few weeks ago. There is almost nothing better than visiting a puppy that is excited to see you but remains someone else's responsibility. My dad is one of those people who need to get to know a pet before giving them a name,* so we were all saying "the puppy" for a few days.

* I am too, though that's only been for the last couple pets. I used to choose the name before I knew the animal, but now I know better.

He was a stray in Baja California (Mexico) and was brought up to a San Diego shelter by an organization that does that, which is where my dad met him. We have NO IDEA what went into his mix... some Great Dane, maybe? He's long-legged and surprisingly mellow. Aussie? He's got that blue merle pattern going on, but with the wrong kind of fur. Terrier? He's got the whiskers and the love for digging, but like I said, he's mellow, not terrieresque. He's 100% Mystery Dog is what he is.



Now his name is "Akimbo" or sometimes just "Kimbo" because it's easier. His elbows, or knees, or whatever, all stick out when he sits or lie down, see? And he's still super uncoordinated? He is the most gangly, akimbo dog I've ever seen and it's adorable. The last time Mr. Elinoire and I were visiting, we watched Akimbo fall off the couch. To us it looked like a train wreck in slow motion (a funny train wreck) but to him it was clearly No Big Deal.

Watching him navigate stairs is still funny, btw. He can do up, but down remains a challenge.

First trip to Dog Beach. He was an easy convert.



Post-beach nap. He's curled up like a cat! Fine, sometimes he doesn't live up to his name.



Oh, and another great thing about the name Akimbo? No one gets it. They say "is that an African name?" and we say "nope." It cracks my dad up.

Entry the thirty-second: It starts...

What, you ask? What is starting, exactly?

Holiday baking, that's what.



Except very little actual baking occurred tonight. I used my wonderful KitchenAid mixer (one of the best birthday presents ever!) to put together um... hold on, I'm counting on my fingers... SEVEN batches of gingerbread cookie dough. My husband thought I was kidding when I told him to buy 5 jars of molasses -- Ha!

My husband set the cat bed up in the kitchen doorway and first Mirabelle then Sylvie obligingly smooshed into it. I feel sure they were cheering me on.



Next week I will descend upon my parents' (larger, nicer, more modern) kitchen like a gingerbread dervish and roll out and bake all this dough. My parents don't mind this because
1. It's a nice way to hang out
2. Their house ends up smelling like gingerbread
3. They get to eat all the mistakes and extra bits.

My mother really likes it when I appropriate their lovely double oven for my cookie madness. The ensuing cheer always knocks the "They-put-Christmas-stuff-up-in-the-stores-in-August-and-that's-just-wrong,-wrong,-WRONG" grouchy mood out of my dad. Once he's experienced the healing power of baking cookies, he brings the boxes of Christmas decorations in from the garage. My mom can never make any headway in this department before baking day.



Happy December!