How's my cranky?

Call 1-555-$%@#-YOU...

Hands up all who even got that?

Yeah, I know. It made sense in my head, though.

Back to topic, then. Yes, I do have one (of sorts). I've been quite cranky in the past while, and personally I think I've been doing a darn good job of hiding it.

Ok, maybe just cloaking it a little.

Oh, come on. I've seemed reasonably chipper, don't you think? Or thing, which is what I originally typed. And if you do thing, I'm not entirely sure I want to know about it.

Great. Now my easily distracted mood has been even further shot to heck by the appearance of Gorillaz on the internet radio. Not my usual taste, you're thinking (or thinging)? Can't help it. I get a kick out of virtual bands.

Makes it hard to go back to talking about being cranky.

I'm going to, though.

For the past few days my ankle has been approximately the size of a... oh, let's say somewhere between a largish navel orange and a smallish grapefruit.

This leads to pain.

This leads to an exaggeration of the limp.

This leads to more pain.

This leads to cranky, especially when there's been no choice but to use said ankle several times a day on icy roads because apparently THE DOG is above using the cats' litter box.

Although... come to think of it, I'm not sure I'd want to volunteer to do the scooping if she suddenly did decide to become litter trained. This is not a small dog.

Incidentally, that's not my boot print in today's pointless photo. It's my father's. I've had the picture on my nerdstick for a while, but I thought it'd make a decent bass note in the symphony of dog-walking whinge.

As of tomorrow, by the way, I wash my hands of all responsibility for the needy pets.

Hopefully, my dad will be back by then. If not, they're going to be feeling awfully abandoned.

Now, don't misunderstand me. I'm very fond of these animals. I'm just not used to having so little of my time to myself. The cats and I do ok (they like a lot of attention, yes, but then they go off and find other things to do. Like sleeping. Or licking every accessible tap in the house, if you're Max. I'm not sure why he does that, but I suppose everyone needs a hobby), but Rikki? Ah, Rikki. I love you, but you're driving me nuts.

Like the pirate with the steering wheel on his fly, yes.

Don't worry if you didn't follow that one. Enough people did to make it worth the typing. For the rest of you: never mind.

It's not just the walking, although that gets old in a hurry when the temperature outside has been juuust low enough to give me a nasty rash every time we go out. No, it's the fact that the dog is daddy's little girl, is exceptionally good at letting me know that I'm not doing things the right way (if you read her bedtime stories you'd be corrected constantly. You know the type), and finds me extremely boring.

That last bit's just judging from the average daily pout tally. She's a champion pouter, this animal.

She also seems to think that I'm keeping my father locked up in my apartment. I've taken her down the highway (in the car, Smudgers) a couple of times so that I could go pick up the mail and water the plants, and each time we've gotten to the apartment parking lot she's been almost wild to come in with me. I didn't let her since I was only going to be a minute or two and it's a no-pets building (although, to be fair, nobody screams about short visits. Or at least they haven't so far), but she sure looked at me afterwards as though I'd made toast and eaten the whole piece without giving her even a corner.

Erm... the dog likes toast.

And pizza pops, apparently.

But that's another story altogether, and I'm tired of typing now.

Besides, it's almost time to go walk the dog.






Again.







Sigh.