Blue: Bomb Dog.

We finally found out why Blue is so destructive. Check out this story from the San Diego Union-Tribune! I’ll give you the good parts here, since there are no pictures of puppies:

“Two puppies in a makeshift pen at Lackland Air Force Base are fighting tooth and nail over a rubber shoe. ‘High toy possessiveness’ is one of the traits the federal government deems desirable in these selectively bred Labrador-vizsla mixes. The breeding will one day lead to dogs so determined that they will stop at nothing to find what they are seeking.
‘We want dogs that show destructive, independent drive,’ Scott Thomas, program manager of the Transportation Security Administration’s puppy program, said recently.”
Bold mine.

I don’t want my dog to get blown up, but I think it would be pretty awesome to manage a puppy program.

He used to be so cute.

Dear Georgia, Bite me.

The sidewalk I shoveled half an hour ago already has at least an inch of snow again. I’m looking forward to trudging down to McGoff’s this evening to limerick it up with any other brave/foolhardy souls. I remember my last class from my poetry professor – he held it at Churchill’s, a bar in downtown Flint, right across from U of M. Only about five of us showed up – mostly those of us who, like me, walked to school. He bought us all a round of drinks, and we talked about our poems for a while and then about whatever it is that poetry leads to while watching the doorman shovel snow off the walk every few minutes. This memory is very color-based – the green carpet against the dark wood of the walls, the gold bar rail and the glowing glass of whiskey in my hand. Everyone seemed to be in a better mood – we sat there, greeted the people who knocked the snow off their shoes and pants to join us, let the snow pile up and seal us off in this warm, smoky room. This was long before everything went to shit – before divorces, before drunken come-ons, before professors retiring in disgrace, before I left the English department to never set foot in that office again.

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Five o'clock update: about another four inches by now. Time to shovel! Also, wondering why I can't get my brain to stop - why, even though I can still remember how Churchill's smells, I can't stop the memory there - why everything inevitably links after it till the (in this case, bitter) end. Is it true that the present taints history? Or is it just me?

Heh. Taint.