Monday, October 20, 2008

Five days, but who's counting? Aim is, that's who!

Why? One word. Puppy.

That's right, we're five days from reuniting with our dog; the canine most eager to please and least equipped to do so. This is the dog that surreptitiously devoured an Ugg boot owned by one of Amy's students during a dinner. The dog that waited until Amy was out of the room to mouth her baklava.

The pup separation was tough at first but it's easier now. When we arrived in Australia, I tried to lessen the emotional reaction by being lighthearted and saying "Hey, we've only got eighty nine days left!" I wasn't prepared for Amy's reaction, which was to search the ground for something that could be used as a weapon. Creativity does have a dark side. I never thought a plastic cup could be used to fashion a shank.

Anyway, those days are behind us because five days is a lot less than eighty nine. It's simple but important math.

I did have a secret plan. Prior to our departure, I secretly made twenty one videos of our dog doing the kinds of things that dogs do. I called it the Pupumentary. If you think that watching seventy five minutes of a dog lie on its back sounds tedious, you have no concept of what it was like to film, edit, and produce the videos. It was the act of a desperate man. To Amy's credit, she made those videos last the whole time.

So how am I spending my final week in Adelaide?

NOTE: Readers are advised to cease reading if disturbed by graphic medical photographs or feet.

Unfortunately, I'm less mobile now because I sprained my ankle while jogging with Amy. I know what you're thinking ... that I look really young for a ninety-year-old. We were jogging by one of the parks when Amy said "let's cross the street. Check for cars." I checked for cars but neglected to look down and took two steps on the side of my foot. I'm not saying that Amy pushed me or tripped me. I'm just saying that she looked unsurprised when I began to limp. She said "can you run on it?" Not even if I was being chased by a rabid Koala. When I finally limped up to our apartment door she said "I just think you might be exaggerating a little bit." Two hours later she said "Wow. That does look swollen."


It's like SNL. This stuff just writes itself.

So we're getting ready to come home. I'm afraid my anxiety level will skyrocket back in the US given that no one will tell me there are no worries. No worries. It's a freeing feeling, even if you know they are lying. I ask "What about the collapse of the world economy?" Eh. No worries. I've got me savings in Coopahs. "What about SARS?" No worries. I take me vitamins. "What about the aussie's lackluster performance in the second test of cricket in India?" No *unprintable expletives* worries.

We are going miss several things about Adelaide. The restaurants ...



summer ...



footy ...


and, of course, death by magpie.