Lazy Winter Sunday

There must, theoretically, be a maximum state of laziness that can be achieved without lapsing into a coma, but I have yet to reach it. This is not for lack of trying. I consider each weekend a valuable research opportunity as I explore the limits of this phenomenon. Unfortunately, annoying things keep surfacing to derail my attempts. These things often include locating clean dishes on which to place the ultimate convenience food (sandwiches), straightening the bed so one or the other of us can laze about on top of the blankets all day (otherwise how would you know you weren’t asleep?), and repeated and highly resented trips to the sliding glass doors to let the dogs in and out. However, letting them out does prevent another potential interruption in my Sofa Slug Marathon - cleaning messes off the floor.

Yesterday I had planned to go to the library and then to Wal-Mart to get the makings for this week’s supply of raw food for the dogs. I did neither. As I lay on the couch, contemplating the best way to accomplish those tasks with minimum effort, I thought first about finding clothes. These needed to be relatively clean, and should, if possible, match. The matching part is somewhat optional in the winter, though, because I will be wearing a coat. Then I would have to locate my book bag, separate the library books from ones I’ve borrowed from friends, and decide which I needed to keep and which ones to return. I thought about the likely scene at Wal-Mart. It would be crawling with half the population of our small town, 80% of which would have multiple children under the age of five, and at least ¾ of those children would be screaming themselves stupid the entire time I was there. It’s like they follow me, relay-style, so that I’m never more than fifteen feet away from some kid in full tantrum mode, with tears and snot coating their blotchy little Kool-Aid stained faces. I decided to stay home.

Today promises to be even worse. Or better, depending on your perspective. I did have to do one chore that has probably already ruined the possibility of today being the Laziest Day Ever, and that was cleaning the dogs’ “Big Dog Platinum Drinkwell.” This thing holds 2½ gallons of water, has a filter, and the water continually recirculates, pouring merrily out the spout and back into the bowl, water fountain-style. The flow of water had slowed to a trickle, meaning that hair, dirt, food bits, and other assorted dog-crud was interfering with the operation of the Drinkwell. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let a $70 high-tech water supply device burn out its motor, reducing it to nothing better than an ordinary water bowl, just because I was going for an All-Time Laziness Record. See, the Drinkwell was purchased to assist in my laziness quest, because regular bowls seemed to run dry about every 15 minutes, and this one only needs to be refilled about every day and a half. But occasionally the timing of its required maintenance is unfortunate.

I’m even planning my television-watching to cause minimum disruption to my day. Instead of checking for what is the best program on in each upcoming time slot, I’ve found it’s better to look for the longest uninterrupted stretch of bearable programming. That way, you don’t have to change channels as often.

I put off getting a bath, because it was too much effort to run the water and maneuver myself into the mandarin-and-lime bubbles. Then, once I got in, I stayed there reading until I was completely pruney, because it was too much effort to climb out and get dressed again.

Tom seems to be working on minimizing his activity today, too. I went in the bedroom, where he was lying on the bed reading an overdue library book, which is only still here because I was too lazy to take it back yesterday. He had some unopened mail beside him. I think he was trying to work up the energy to actually open it. Darwin had followed me (the Parade Rule) and hopped up onto the bed, knocking the mail onto the floor. Tom peered sadly over the edge of the bed.

“He knocked my papers on the floor.” Sigh.
“Yeah, he did,” I agreed, moving only my eyes to verify this fact.
“He’s a retriever,” Tom commented, hopefully.
I pondered this for a moment, leaning heavily on the bed. “No, they only retrieve stuff that other people relocate. It doesn’t count if he moved it himself.”

Knowing Darwin was not about to have a Lassie Moment, I sluggishly bent and retrieved the scattered mail. Thoroughly exhausted, I returned to the couch. Maybe I really should reconsider my ban on helper monkeys.

Darwin was antsy, but I didn’t want to put him out just then. If he decided to get caught in his endless car-chasing loop, I totally did not want to have to suit up and go out and attempt to apprehend and return the rambunctious retriever to the house.

Plus, he tore a toenail yesterday, which didn’t surprise me a bit. I noticed some spots of blood on the kitchen floor, and naturally I first checked myself for injuries. This was completely unnecessary, since I’m still not drinking and if I’d suffered a blood-producing wound, I certainly would have noticed. But old habits die hard, I suppose.

After determining that I was not the source of the blood, I checked Darwin. I had been a bit concerned about the fence-running and potential foot damage, because he’s basically running on a sheet of ice that is full of jaggedy divots and ruts, and he’s zipping through there at high speed with frequent sudden changes of direction. Dog toenails seem to function a lot like the studs in snow tires, but are apparently not as durable.

The D-Dog had torn the outside nail on his left front paw, and anyone who has ever clipped a dog’s nail too short knows they bleed like hell. Some peroxide (which he didn’t enjoy) and some stop-bleeding stuff, and he was fine. But first thing this morning, out there running the fence, he got it bleeding again, so I’m trying to keep him in as much as possible. He was pacing and fussing, and I was so not moving just then. I rolled my eyes in his direction, pointed weakly with one finger, and ordered, “You. Be less of an ass pain.” That worked for about ten minutes, but probably because I had just finished a bologna sandwich and still had crumbs on my shirt, which served as a temporary distraction while he figured out if I actually had more sandwich hidden upon my person.

When he finally did have to go out, so as to avoid the dreaded Lake Darwin appearing anywhere inside the house, I did something almost smart. It was a compromise, though, because while it did take more effort than just opening the door and letting him take off, it also eliminated the possibility that I’d have to go out and fetch him after he’d barked himself all foamy-muzzled and bloody-footed. I found an old 30-foot cotton training line in the laundry room, and went out with him. He got to do what needed to be done, could run around a bit, enjoyed dragging the line back and forth in front of Brody and repeatedly ensnaring his feet, but he couldn’t head for the fence, and had to come in when I was tired (which was about three minutes).

Oh, and I also had to clean Ozark’s rancid ear. I’ve been treating it for a week, and it was time to clean all the brown goop that has been oozing out. I don’t mind doing this, because it is an activity closely related to picking. But on a scale of 1-10 on the “Things I Want to Do Today” scale, Ozark rated the ear cleaning at -43. He immediately went outside afterwards and rubbed his de-gunked ear in the snow, and since he came back in has been lying by the aquarium casting baleful glances in my direction. I think I’m supposed to feel guilty. I don’t.

I was planning to groom Ozark today, too, having borrowed a Furminator from a golden-friend, but I am wearing a velour track suit and changing would be far too much trouble. Not to mention the actual grooming and resulting clean-up.

That’s it. I’m done. I started a really good book last night, an urban fantasy called “Dog Days” by John Levitt. There’s also some good stuff on TV about the coming End of Days according to the ancient Mayan calendar, which will be December 21, 2012. I actually give this theory a lot more credence than any of the other Doomsday Prophesies I’ve ever heard. Those ancient Mayans knew an awful lot of stuff they shouldn’t have been able to know, and combined with an almost identical prediction in the I Ching, I’m thinking if there’s anything I really want to do, I should take care of it by around September 2012, just to be on the safe side.

The really hilarious thing was that right in the middle of this program a commercial came on for Hom Furniture, offering no interest and no payments till 2012. Sounds like a hell of a deal, if you ask me, as long as life as we know it ends on schedule.

Now, before all this typing totally blows the laziness curve for today, I’m going back to the couch. Tom has golf on, and there’s no more lethargic, nap-inducing game on the planet.