Survival of the drunkest: the long story

Time, she does fly. I can't imagine that it's been 12 days since I updated this, but I guess when you're enjoying quality family activities like baking cookies or getting utterly hammered on old people cocktails, you lose your grip on reality.

So Thanksgiving went well (in spite of, or perhaps because of, the three - three! - bottles of gin we went through in four days) and I'm in recovery, a period that's been largely improved by the ongoing presence of pie. We made three for the Big Eat, and yet somehow when those ran out, there were still more pies on the counter. Our pies defied all laws of biology and inanimate object reproduction and totally mated, and I have the thighs to prove it.

The house is in one piece, definitely in spite of the best efforts of six canine crusaders, led by Astrid the wonderpuppy and Gracie, my mom's clinically insane scottish terrier. We had the expected family dogs: Max, Kate's airedale, and Dexter, my uncle's something-or-other. And we also had the orphans, two fuzzy black puppies that we found at the dog park on Saturday. Our neighborhood has a terrific dog park, with very high fences and a lot of woodsy grounds great for endless running. We decided to take said family dogs for a frolic, in hopes that they would chase each other around, eventually die of exhaustion, and thus keep the hell away from the pie. Astrid has her special park tag, but obviously none of the others have it, so we went slinking in, hoping to avoid getting busted until at least one of them passed out.

And of course, when we walked in, a rather good-looking cop beelined right at us. Bumping along at his heels were the puppies, so to cause a distraction and let my mom get the untagged ones into the gate, I immediately began howling and screeching "MAWWWM, look at the little FUZZIES, Mawwwwm, aren't they PRECIOUS!" As hoped, the cop stopped to talk to me, probably because he thought I was completely off my rocker and I was going to go ahead and consume the puppies in one rabid bite.

We learned that they had been abandoned that morning, and that they would be turned over to animal control that evening if no one had claimed them. And I ask you, Internet people, would you have allowed that to happen to something that looked like THIS?

Fortunately, in the spirit of Thanksgiving, Madam Fuzzybritches here and her baby sister have moved in with some very good families, although not before pissing all over our carpet, eating one of the baby's shoes (and I mean chewing and swallowing) and driving poor old Astrid totally up the wall. But we loved them, and they loved us, and I loved having fifty-'leven people and dogs and pounds of leftovers hanging around the house. It was a big ego boost, as everyone kept saying how nice the house looked, and how they were so impressed with the fact that we seem to have our shit together quite well. (And underneath my "oh, THANK you" face, my brain said, "Suckers.")

Princess Norah behaved herself very well, charming the living hell out of the relatives and managing to eat approximately 21 times per day, thanks to my grandmother's obsessive need to feed babies and dogs until they look like little sacks of concrete with eyes. We've discovered that she can stand up while just holding on to our fingers, a nifty little trick that never fails to blow my mind. How can she stand up? When did she grow legs that work? The miracle and wonder of it all! She even managed to be sweet and sunny during the day-long trip to the outlet mall on Sunday. That screaming fussing baby? SHE TOTALLY ATE HER.

Those were the high points, m'dears, and I'll spare you the rest. Gin, puppies, and a baby that can perform like a circus poodle - ain't no party like an our-house party. Wish you were here.