So, as luck would have it, Aidan's nuts wouldn't go down without a fight. As the good doctor informed me, "one of the little guys was hiding pretty good."

Sounds funny . . . then you see the bill and realize that the case of the less-than-fully-descended testicle cost me $140 extra.

AWESOME.

See, when people talk about how much money dogs cost you . . . they list food, and shots. Toys too. Perhaps they're kind enough to remind you how much your coffee table or DVD collection is worth prior to FIDO getting ahold of that (sad that I actually typed FICO instead of FIDO at first . . . if you don't get it, don't worry, it's hardly important). What they seem to conveniently neglect is the fact that not every dog is the picture of perfect health. Some dogs are prone to ear infections. Some have skin allergies. Some have balls that just refuse to drop all the way. Fuck.

Anyways, on to the meat and potatoes (aw, poor dog, if he could read he might interpret that as a horribly cruel euphemism) . . .

Have you ever had someone give you credit for something you didn't do? Now, I'll obviously not get into any great detail regarding this story, as it may or may not yield positive results for my professional career if read by the wrong people . . . but seriously. I'm not talking about some thing where someone thinks that maybe you were involved in something that you weren't involved in, and they're giving you credit to cover their bases . . . no, I'm more referring to when someone so far above you that he doesn't even know your name thanks you for doing something that you in your role are so far removed from that you don't even understand what
you're being thanked for until said person walks away . . . yeah.

What do you say?

I mean, "thanks" seems to be a staple, right? But do you say "thanks" when someone's that far off?

Do you stare blankly until they realize they're maybe incorrect, or spare their feelings and let them work that part out on their own?

Rest assured, if it was any one of you I'd just have called you out on it and moved on with my life. Instead I'm stuck thinking "does this guy actually think I did something worthwhile?"

Of course I've done many things worthwhile . . . he's just completely unaware of them.

That, of course, raises a new question: Is it wrong to accept credit for something you've clearly not done when all the things you do that are worth noticing go, well, unnoticed?

Our story begins about 9 months ago . . . the picture to the left is from one month ago, but i would rather not (re)post the hamster-esque pictures of Aidan, as the recent ones are even more awesome and don't embarrass him as much . . .

Yes, that's my dog in the photo to the left with the Super Saiyan hair . . . seriously, Akira Toriyama couldn't conjure up wackier hair . . .

So we fast-forward to the present, which i guess in theory we were already at due to the discussion of a fairly recent picture, but still . . .

Ok, so the story began roughly 9 months ago, and in simulated hyperspeed progressed to the present . . . the first few months had me sleeping no more than 3 hours at a time, going to bed at midnight, getting up a 3 for a poop break, changing the towel in the crate because he couldn't hold it 3 fucking hours, taking another 3 hour nap, AGAIN changing the towel because he couldn't hold it 3 fucking hours, going to work way too early, coming home for lunch, changing the towel, going back to work, coming home, changing the towel, cooking dinner, changing the towel, eating dinner, changing the towel . . . you get the point. Ok, so the pooping once an hour may have subsided after about a month . . . so eventually i was just taking him out and cleaning up sporadic explosions on the (thankfully wood) floors. Holy fucking shit, I really never would have guessed a creature could poop so much, and with so little control. Nor did I think I'd be washing a load of towels a day . . .

So I finally was able to put my rugs back down in November, and (knock on wood) no accidents on them . . . it seems he only has a problem when he's at anyone ELSE's place . . . great. So I'm the asshole with the dog that poops on the floor.

He finally stays at home during the day in the kitchen instead of in his tiny crate, and he sleeps on the bed at night . . .

What I cannot understand is how at 2-3 months old he learned that when I say "let's go home" he should run into his crate . . . first "command" he learned. Then "sit," "stay," "go," and *kind of* "come." And he learned ALL of those before he learned what I strongly consider the most important command of all: "DON'T POOP IN THE FRAKIN' HOUSE!!!"

It did provide me with some amusement, b/c when he'd do it and I didn't see it happen, generally right about the time the smell made it to my olfactory glands, he'd be sitting in front of me with his "uh oh, I fucked up" look . . . see exhibit b (right).

He loves playing with dogs 5 times his size . . . I've seen him literally flung from the floor onto couches because he holds on to the tug-of-war rope a little too doggedly (no pun intended . . .). I've also had him run over and look up at me soaked to the skin in Boxer drool . . . and happy as can be. He was not as happy in the ensuing bath . . .

He's afraid of plastic bags and cats, but doesn't seem to have an overwhelmingly debilitating fear of the vaccuum cleaner . . . go figure.

And on Friday, January 23rd, he's getting his balls chopped off. Somehow, despite all the pooping on the floor (some of which I've stepped in . . . some of which i've stepped in barefoot) . . . despite the chewing of shoelaces and nice belts and headphone wires . . . despite the exploding in his crate and getting it ALL OVER HIM, forcing many 4am baths and many semi-sleepless nights . . . I really felt bad scheduling this appointment. I guess I'm just a guy, and the idea of losing what I'm going to adamantly claim as a very important and useful part of my anatomy would be devastating.

I just hope the poor bastard doesn't hate me forever. I wonder if "we're going to Disney World" works on dogs . . . or if he'll go all Marley & Me and try to dive out the window . . .

Poor guy . . . right now he has no idea that he'll never be the same again. He thinks his biggest problem in the entire world is that I'm taking a few too many minutes to finish writing instead of taking him outside . . .

Meet Aidan:



Yeah, this little rascal is taking up every ounce of free time. Who knew that something this small could poop so much . . . I mean, really, it defies the laws of physics. Regardless, it's pretty tough to deny that he's cute as a button.



So far, it's pretty clear that his favorite toy is a piece of rope. Pretty nice to be so infatuated with a toy that cost $3.49 . . . I'm not sure what I'd consider my favorite toy, but I'd bet that his costs <1% of mine . . . sigh.

I'm going to try to go back in to work tomorrow . . . see how that goes. He's been adjusting well, so time to toss him in the deep end and hope he can swim. It will be an exhausting few weeks until I can get used to it. Having to wake up an hour earlier so I can get to work by 730 but still have time to take him out beforehand . . . having to come home every day for lunch to let him out of his crate . . . not being able to go anywhere directly after work. It will be worth it.

My place is strange without carpets. And with all the lights on all the time (I have always been partial to the "if you're not in the room, don't leave the light on" attitude . . . except that my place is mostly just one large open room . . .so it's become "if you're not in that corner of the room, don't leave the light on."). And it's strange not being able to actually take advantage of a day off and clean, or watch a movie, or play a video game . . . at least not easily. Gotta keep an eye on the little one and make sure he's not running around eating electrical cords, or making a mess on the floor (hence the lights staying on always . . . helps one see the land mines prior to stepping in them).

Yeah, I know, right? So in about 5-6 weeks that little sucker is gonna be terrorizing my pad. should be interesting.

How many times can one person look back and ask "what if" and still claim he has no real regrets in his life? I honestly cannot look back on anything in my life and say "I should have done that differently."

Wait, that's a lie. There is one thing.

The rest, though? I could very easily come up with a list of 20 decisions I've made over the last decade for which I question the alternate outcome. What does that make me? Indecisive? Or inconclusive? Does it mean that even God Himself couldn't nail down just one path for me, or is it simply that I'm too blind or stubborn to understand it (for the record, and the purpose of any lightning bolt currently being sent in my direction, I'd lean towards the latter, were I forced to choose).

I'm not one who believes in fate or destiny. I'm not a romantic, if there was any doubt. I'm simple and down-to-earth, and I believe that my life was granted to me with a purpose, not a path.

Can that be? Who knows, I'll leave it to you literal folk to make that decision. My purpose is to bring good to those around me. My path is meaningless in the grand scheme.

I'm a bit confused . . . can't you tell?

I have no answers; please stop looking to me to provide them. Maybe one day I'll be an expert . . . right now I'm just a friend . . . just some dude. Just . . . me.

I've been plagued by a strange sort of insomnia this week. I've really only had the usual amount of trouble falling asleep. The problem is that I don't seem to get into any kind of deep slumber, and so six or seven hours later I wake up exhausted. It sucks. It's like I spend the whole night in that zone between consciousness and dreams, where they phone can ring and startle you out of it, and thinking back you'll realize you're not really sure you're asleep. This is further evidenced by the noticeble lack of dreams I've experienced.

Golly, I'm tired. This has not been the kind of week at work that goes well with being tired. It's been kinda slow and every thing that's come up for me to work on out of the ordinary has been boring drudgery. I need some crazy action right now so the days aren't just dragging on like that.

I have no idea what that title has to do with any of this - I was going for catchy.

Today was one of those days. You know the ones, right? The kinda day that when asked how you are, you can't find an answer; you reply with something lame like "well, ya know . . . " And believe me, that response is lame. But sadly, it's the best I've got, and I'd fancy a wager that you're not too much better off.

It was one of those days. The kinda day that has you sitting alone in your room listening to chick music.

Yeah, one of those days.

The ones you sit down to write about. The ones you store away in your memory, hoping to play as a trump card in some super lame "uneventfully stupid day" conversation. One of those where nothing major exactly went wrong; it's just that nothing went right, either.

The kind of day that only people like me can appreciate. Yeah, that's right. The optimists . . . . or not. But today was the kind of day that usually provides the groundwork for all  those good days. Understand? No? Let me explain.

These are the days that you hold in contrast to all that's beautiful - to all that's wonderful - to all that makes sunshine and puppy dogs really seem as great as they are.

Think about it. Who cares about it being sunny? It makes everything hot, it makes you sweat, and, if you're like me, generally leaves you a funny shade of crimson and in all kinds of discomfort. But then when it's all nasty and rainy and cold and dreary and downright depressing, and you're stuck inside with nothing to do but stare out the window . . . well, don't you long for the sun?

Without days like today, the good days would just be bland and boring, and then they'd be this kinda day, and it would take something utterly spectacular to make you smile.

Set the bar low and everything will be so much brighter.

Yeah, days like this suck . . . but they suck a lot less when you remember what they do for you; when you remember how great things can be in contrast.

Today was just another day. See you all tomorrow.

Well, that was short-lived. I guess I should've seen it coming, but oh well. Maybe I just needed to see for myself that I really am over that silly game. Yeah, I'm talking about World of Warcraft . . . again. Ha ha, lookit the dork!! I'll equate my return to the World to that first time going back to your college town and hitting the bar scene. Well, not MY first time going back to Athens, as I was kinda there for every football game the season after I left, so it didn't really feel like I'd been gone. But the following summer after that, when you could look around and know that 90% of the people there were 2-3 years younger than you, all of your favorite bartenders were gone, sometimes-you-wanna-go-where-everybody-knows-your-name . . . but they forgot? Like that. In the past, my returns have been glorious. Like "OMG why did I ever cancel my account?" glorious. The luster was lacking. Good for me.

I think this time I just wanted to know that I didn't care?

Geeze this is sounding like an addiction. It's not that, though, I swear. It's more like this - if you had a way to have a lot of fun for any extended period of time, anytime you wanted, you'd understand WoW. Except, thankfully, finally, it's no longer fun. It's just a way to waste a lot of time. No thanks.

It's been roughly three years since I stepped down off my soapbox. Roughly three years since I stopped critizing the phenomenon that was sweeping the world. Roughly three years since I let my inhibitions run away and cracked open Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. At the time, the fifth book of the series had just been released, and I figured that if I somehow did get sucked in, by the time I finished all of these absurdly thick children's novels, I'd probably not have to wait long for the final two. So I sat down and read. I'd already seen the frist two movies, mind you . . . I blame a girl for ever exposing me to that world; it's really always their fault with stuff like this, isn't it?

As I was saying, I sat down to begin reading the first 2300 or so pages, or, in simpler terms, 5 books, of the series. The first three books total maybe 900-1000 pages, and by the end of a week (of reading after work and on weekends), I'd finished them. I thought "Man, that's wild - I don't normally average 80-90 pages an hour . . . well I'm sure these last two monstrosities will take me forever." Wrong, again. 4 days later I'd read books 4 and 5, totalling 1400 pages, and was completely in shock at the way the 5th book ended. Where the hell was book six?!?

Fast forward 8 or so months, to the day that Amazon e-mailed me with preorder info for HP 6. After that long, the enchantment had somewhat worn off, and I decided I was too cool to preorder that book - the plan was to borrow it from my brother when he finished. Now we reach the part where World of Warcraft ruined yet another thing for me. In the off chance that some of you actually don't know how book 6 ends, I won't say exactly what people were spamming all over the internet - just that it was the horrific climactic ending of the sixth book.

I lost complete interest in the Harry Potter series about that time, and never read the sixth book. I still remembered how amazing the first 5 books were, and my soapbox was turned to face Laura Mallory of Loganville, Ga., who was campaigning (and probably still is) to have the entire series removed from schools, as they were pure evil. I'll say again, as I did in my 1100+ word rebuttal to the article advocating the ban:

"The Harry Potter series has done something amazing for this generation of youth. It's gotten them to put down their twinkies and Xbox controllers long enough to read "really very long" books. Hello! You fucking parents are complaining that your kids play too many video games, and now that Harry Potter has actually diverted their attention and gotten them interested in reading, you decide that it's evil?!? Evil! It's a fucking BOOK! It's called Imagi-fucking-nation! Fine, take the books away from them, let them get back to F.E.A.R. or Warcraft or any of the myriad of First-Person Shooters or Mortal Kombat games drenched in blood...because man that's nothing compared to witchcraft! Take away the only hope this next generation has at turning out writers, since that's what you really want. In fact, take anyone who's ever written anything creative and lock them in a bomb shelter until they swear to never pollute young minds again"

Finally, nearly two years after the 6th book was released, and three years after I'd read the first 5 of the series, I decided it was time to pick the books back up, regardless of the fact that I knew the ending, because I wanted to be ready for number 7. Conveniently, Charter Communications devestated my cable internet connection - an act that ultimately marked the end of my interest in WoW, which (not coincidentally) sent me back to books. The Half-Blood Prince is like 650 pages, and I almost read the entire book on a Sunday. Once I finished it, I decided I didn't remember enough about the previous five, so over the course of perhaps 3 weeks, though maybe less, I reread books 1-6.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was delivered to my door last Saturday, as I was moving my stuff to my new condo. It sat unopened until Tuesday, sadly, due to the craziness that surrounds moving. However, I read this one in two sessions, after work Tuesday and after work Wednesday, and I can only say one thing - it was amazing. It was the perfect way to wrap up the series. And, 3 years after I renegued on my assertation that these were crappy kids' books, I'm forced, once more, to take back anything I ever said that would possibly lead people to believe that I didn't think much of J.K. Rowling as an author, but merely someone who presented something at the right time and reaped the benefits of the mindless trend-following American Public. While part of that may be true, I cannot claim to be anything short of awed by her vision. To write over 3,000 pages, and never leave me thinking "man that was a really shitty way to do that," is remarkable. There were a couple moments throughout the series where I initially thought she should've done something differently, but when progressing deeper, it seems that everything was planned with prefect precision.

I'll leave you with one simple thought. You may not like it, you may think that I'm totally full of shit, etc . . .

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows is probably the third best book I've read. Ever. But to fully appreciate it, you'll need to have read the other 6 prior. And no matter how cool or manly or tough you think you are, you're a fool if you think you're too *anything* for these books. The series on the whole falls second to the Dark Tower, but not by much, and it doesn't suffer from the inconsistancy that so flawed the latter half of the Dark Tower.

If you haven't yet read these, be glad - you can now read them all straight through and never have to wait to find out what's next.

I challenge anyone to read this series and tell me that, after reading all 7 books, they didn't dig it. Good luck.

I'll write more soon. Maybe. Who knows . . . tonight, maybe? Will I share more? Not likely . . .  Why? I don't know. Maybe because I don't need validation to be pleased with something I've created. It's easy to say that, I suppose. And it's partly true. I don't need people to tell me they like something for me to be happy with it . . . I think that's why I feel perfectly ok not showing anyone most of the stuff I come up with. Well, that, and while I don't need praise, I think, to a degree at least, I fear criticism. I mean, about most things, I don't. Make fun of me for being short, or pudgy, or laugh because I consider seeing Harry Potter in theaters to be important, or because I think a Friday night spent playing video games or watching a movie at home is ok on occassion, and even wonderful. Act all disappointed because I have Michelle Branch or Mandy Moore on my ipod, or because my two favorite movies ever have no explosions, only one person gets shot in one, and the other is in French (Amelie and American Beauty).Guess none of that is too personal. That is all to say, forgive me for ceaseless opening pages and no substance.