We arrived in Brooklyn Heights yesterday to spend the holiday weekend hanging out with Dexter until Beth comes back. I love the neighborhood – and having a dog around – too much to go back to Astoria without grumbling a little. Things are proceeding well, although you’d have to check Dexter’s Myspace page to see if he’s still trying to figure out who these total strangers are and where his family went.
There has been no peebelly that I’ve noted and the burrowing under the blankets where we were sleeping was far more hilarious than it was intrusive. I took Beth’s advice and brought his dog bed downstairs when we came to bed, and at first, Dex settled very politely into it and I thought he was too shy to crawl onto the bed. But about an hour later, I woke up to tiny spindly terrier legs pacing back and forth along my shins, with a clear message of frustration: “WOMAN THAT IS NOT BETH, WHY AM I NOT UNDER THE COVERS.”
Rather than rebuff him again and send him into an adolescent spiral of writing in his journal and listening to The Cure, I lifted one corner of the duvet and sure enough, dog dove happily underneath.
Only to be foiled from curling up between my feet when he discovered what a Kicker I am. Something that Stuart grumblingly commiserated with him over, during breakfast.
Dexter, Stuart and I have spend today dilligently pursuing our holiday goals – reading the Winter Fiction issue of the New Yorker (me), playing SSX Tricky (Stuart) and chasing sunshine across three couches (Dex). All is well, I think.
borrowing brooklyn
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Man, was the winter fiction this year ever prurient. I remember a time when they’d just reprint “Yes, Virginia, There Is A Santa Claus” or “The Gift of the Magi” and a few chestnuts about getting shitfaced off eggnog by Ogden Nash and be done with it. Well, actually, no I don’t. Anyway, my mother’s dog will kill me for saying so, but that is the cutest dog ever.
Dex is the BOMB, yo. And yes, prurient they were. I actually liked Barnes’ non-fiction personal essay more than I liked any of the fiction. Although McEwan’s story held some water.