Hey! I have a Secret Pal, and s/he sent me a present!
Two skeins of wonderfully soft sock yarn in pretty earth-toned colors (yes, if I was more technologically inclined, this would be a better picture). And yes, I'm sure we all remember how incompetent I am regarding multiple needles and sock yarn. This yarn, however, is going to tempt me to Try Again, because it's so soft that I'm sure it would be delightful on my tootsies. Plus--and yet again I'm not a good photographer--the little pink blob under the cat card? Memo paper. In a cool case with shoes and purses all over it. Given that from this desk, I can see no less than seven purses and four pairs of shoes/sandals, this seems more than appropriate. And a cute picture frame with a self-portrait of the sender. Thanks, Secret Pal!!!
Thus ends the knitting content of this post, for I have not been knitting much, rather reading frantically in an attempt to be prepared for the next selection of Knit One Read Too, Kazuo Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go. A haunting and chilling book. I'm so glad I read it, but I'm ready for something much, much lighter now.
In other news, we had a culinary adventure last night. I made some extraordinarily (if I do say so myself) wonderful barbecued ribs. The recipe was out of the current issue of Bon Appetit. I dry-rubbed the ribs with a spice mixture overnight, then poached them in the oven with apple cider, sliced onions, and cinnamon sticks. Then I grilled them, basting them with this to-die-for sauce made of brown sugar, bourbon, mustard, cider, and vinegar. Yum yum yum. Absolutely flippin' fabulous. I put out side dishes, but who needs anything else when the main course is so divine?
So after we all (except for the 12 year old, who decided he didn't like the bbq and made a peanut butter sandwich instead--sigh) slurped and grunted like cavemen over our pile of ribs, we belched and sighed in satisfaction. The dogs were, of course, going crazy, watching us in our carnivorous orgy. Teddy in particular kept trying to jump up on the table. Apparently cirrhosis of the liver doesn't immediately mean a decline in appetite. Finally DH, in one of his less inspired moments, waved a chewed-up bone over Teddy's head. And Teddy--Teddy, the dog who can't keep his balance on wood floors; who falls over every time he tries to scratch himself; and who, after two years of living with us, still sometimes loses control when coming down the stairs and tumbles ass over head--Teddy made a perfect leap into the air, pulled the bone out of DH's hand, and ran away. And in the two seconds it took DH to leap up and chase him, Teddy swallowed the entire bone.
Now, this is no dainty chicken toe bone, people. Look at this thing:
I put the table knife there for size comparison. And yes, this is the actual bone. So that's a spoiler, you know the story ends well. But it didn't end until we'd frantically searched the Internet and dosed Teddy up with hydrogen peroxide, trying to get him to vomit (no syrup of Ipecac on hand, tsk tsk). What's the deal with this dog? Vomits all the time when we don't want him to. But when we need him to? Nothing doing.
Finally DH scooped him up and hauled him to the emergency vet (have I mentioned Teddy's nickname? "Ka-ching Ka-ching"). They x-rayed him and were so impressed with the size of the bone stuck in his throat that they had to show everyone on staff what Teddy had accomplished. They ended up anesthetizing him and performing an endoscopy to pull the bone out before it got into the intestine. Which, of course, would have required even worse surgery, and even more $$$. They kept him overnight and sent DH home. Being a good vet's office, they called with follow-up last night and again this morning, both times talking about how amazing it was he could swallow that bone. And when I picked him up, the staff mentioned that amazement yet again. And they gave me x-rays to deliver to the regular vet. Who said, when I arrived, "Oh, we've been waiting for this! We heard all about it! We can hardly wait to see the x-ray!"
But the little stinker is just fine. Well, as fine as a severely epileptic dog with advanced liver disease can be. For those of you who are wondering why we spent the money on a dog with a limited life expectancy, DH put it this way (and this is one of the reasons I do indeed love my DH): it'd be different if he seemed to be on his last legs, but he's been acting like he feels quite well, even though his liver has shriveled. And this incident was our fault, not his. Hard to let him go over something stupid we did, when he does appear to have some good life left.
But we've certainly learned our lesson: no more taunting Teddy with tidbits from the table.