My Prague Cottage

For some reason during week three there was a lull in my normally overactive picture-taking. Needless to say, I have not written a full length novel for you today.

One nice day, I shot a pic of the main square (namesti, if you will) of Roztocky. I was trying to go to the Post Office, which had sadly closed ten minutes ago.

After taking this, I decided to try and get a close-up of that couple on the bench to illustrate how strangely okay PDA is here... but unfortunately they were just cuddling and not making out or anything else these gutsy CR couples do.

Roztocky has an abundance of cute little shops, my favorite of which is "Dog Pet," though I have not yet ventured inside.

 

I also took a photo of the cottage I live in! OMG, motherfuckers!

That's okay to put this on the internet, right? No one knows exactly where it is. Wink.

Do you like the green and brown striped fence? Me too.

Oh! And don't let me forget my deaf and blind dog pet, Homer.

He doesn't really sleep on my bed this much, he only very rarely ponders it when Jarmila is gone.

Which leads me to... drumroll, trumpet blast... my BED! As they would say on every episode ever of MTV Cribs, "This is where the magic happens."

[And by "magic" I mean Homer slept there once.]

I have a pleasant view through the window every morning. Lets just say, there are flowers. Ready for it?

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I've also begun wearing air-dried clothes. So Prague. I know. 

Yep. That's my underwear and I am not ashamed. Also, we often see a pretty white cat in our backyard named Angie. Today I got her to let me pet her and found out she has one green eye and one blue eye. I didn't take a picture though... we don't know each other well enough yet. 

Let's see... what else to say? Jarmila has grandkids, as evidenced by her refrigerator. (Side note: I met some of these aforementioned kids on Skype the other day.)

The girl on the fridge is one of Jarmila's daughters. The English words are courtesy yours truly. 

I close with a picture of Naomi. She said, "I feel like such a bad-ass hipster right now, someone needs to take a picture!" 

Don't worry, she's not usually a hipster, it's just that she happened to be borrowing a guitar, wearing a scarf, AND smoking a cigarette she had rolled herself. The stars aligned. 

Grotesque Dog Kennel Stories

WARNING: IF YOU DO NOT LIKE TO LOOK AT LOTS OF LITTLE THINGS IN ONE PLACE, YOU MAY NOT WANT TO READ ANY FURTHER. I have put a non-offensive opening picture, just in case you want to turn back.

[My cute yet un-photogenic pup, Fraser made it on the wall paper at work. Not fair that he's next to that slutty Lassie model-dog though.]

Before I get to the real meat of this post, let me add this:

Before we got Fraser, all we had was a print-out of a picture my aunt and uncle emailed us of him. My sister and I weren't very excited, because we thought he look ugly. 

Luckily, our shallow hearts were stilled when we learned how cute he is in person (or should I say in canine?).

Anyway...

During the last few weeks of work, box elders invaded. 

And I really mean invaded. They were everywhere, crawling, creeping; their very existence was both disgusting and offensive. Especially when you see a big bundle of eggs, bright red baby bugs, and adults swarming on each other in a big clump of horrible.

Little did we know it was just beginning. 

Lauren and I took some down time to research them on Wikipedia. 

We learned they are attracted to the box elder tree. They feed on it. 

[Of course, we have one right by the office. What did you expect?]

[Are you as repulsed as I am by these pictures?]

After relaying to us that the bugs burrow behind siding over the winter, Wikipedia finally offered a small ray of hope:

"These insects can be killed with a dilute mixture of soap and water."

Ah, what a glorious utterance!

Lauren and I took out the garden hose and some dish detergent and went crazy--warrior style-- on the red beasts.
Now, you can't tell in pictures how dead they are, but just imagine the mass of red going from a chaotic movement to a moist stillness.

[again: gross.]

We killed millions that day (or at least hundreds) but our victorious battle did not end the war.

A week or so later, after we had been suspiciously out of dish soap for days, Lauren used her lunch break to buy four brand new bottles (two green apple and two orange, if you were wondering). 

It was a wonderful killing once again. Our soap soldiers got three times the kills, and we even had leftover dishsoap to donate to the ol' dog kennel. 

[Of course... they are still out there... biding their time.]

I must say that killing infestations of bugs is a very satisfying way to spend one's afternoon.

Anyway, here is a tranquil picture to calm your nerves after this horror story.

It was taken in Cannon Falls this summer with Brian:

Pups from the "Dog Days of Summer"

Some dogs at the ol' boarding kennel summer job were barkers and/or scratchers and/or fighters. Most of them were adorable. There were even a select few I loved enough to photograph with my phone!

Brutus

Picture a really ugly dog. Brutus is probably uglier. First of all, something is wrong with the shape of his head... his cranium forms a sort of inverted triangle or pyramid (very strange to pet). His eyes are uncomfortably reddish, he has bad breath, dandruff, and greasy hair.

The thing is, he is the happiest dog EVER.

When the dogs are in their kennels for a meal or bed, even looking at him will cause him to start hopping with uncontrollable excitement. (Please take the term hopping seriously; he is not jumping like a regular dog would.)

When you play fetch with lots of dogs, he is the only one who willingly brings it back right away. And if you aren't in the mood for playing fetch, instead of freaking out or following you like a zombie, Brutus will cheerfully lay down and chew on the ball for a bit.

Also, if you play fetch with an apple (there is a ripe tree on the side of the yard), he tries to give the apple to you for throwing but instead eats it. Except somehow Brutus doesn't know he has eaten the apple and stares at you longingly, waiting for you to throw it again.

[my poor attempt to show the shape of his head]

[Brutus when he is happy.]

Buddy

Buddy is old, deaf, slow and fat. Yet he is so endearing. 

He's just a gentle little guy, whose favorite thing is you petting him.

The first picture shows just how bad of a pet photographer I really am. 

[can't even take a decent picture of a slow, old dog!]

As for the second two, I'm hoping they will suffice. 

[He's not that blurry in real life.]

Before my mom does it for me, I will have to point out that I used to own a dog named Buddy. My siblings and I wanted to name him Happy but my mom was too embarrassed. So Happy was his middle name. Yeah, that's right, our dogs have middle names. 

Buddy Happy Roberts. 

Our Buddy didn't live to be as old as dog kennel Buddy, because he jumped off the top of my bunk bed and broke his back.

He was also a tan cockapoo (cocker spaniel + poodle). Maybe I am a bit biased. 

Simpson

Do I only like dogs with disabilities? The answer is no. Simpson was young and tall with soft, long fur. He was too nervous to do anything at first, but eventually that changed. 

At one point Simpson was doing that thing that dogs do... you know, when they roll in the grass for no apparent reason other than Pure Joy.

[I hope you know what I'm talking about.]

Other/Etc.

Here is a picture of that famous Doggie Pool from an earlier post. 

[Sometimes, they are as happy as you think.]

Don't steal that picture, because I'm probably going to market it as a photo mouse pad.

Here is a picture of my current dog Fraser looking vicious when his mouth is being blown by the wind.

Dirty Dog

As you may know (ok, so all of you do know because you all know me, but I can dream an anonymous follower will visit!), my blog is named after my previous summer job at an omelette factory.

This summer the egg-heads rejected me, and I was in lingo. I kept you in the loop about my telephone book delivery job, but I've now been working at a doggie boarding kennel for a month in a half and I have yet to post a peep about it!

There was one attempt to photograph how dirty I get, but after a few failures I chose the shower instead.

[FAIL- at winking and getting a good photo]

No dirt, but a whole lot of weird showed up in that picture. So I tried again, with the timer:

[nice loose strand of hair, nerd.]

Okay, if you look closely, maybe you can see a few smudges...

...but there is still more weird in this picture than dirt-evidence. 

(Added failure: now my bed has DOG GERMS on it!)

Anyway, that sums up my long excuse for not posting about the dog place earlier.

Let me tell you about the boarding kennel (slash doggie-daycare) that is "GrandPaws." Cute puns are not the only fun thing about working there! 

I get to pet dogs for most of the day. Honestly. The rest of the time may be spent feeding them and cleaning up poop, but the experience is still fun, overall. 

Still, there is a misconception I think needs clearing up. I do not spend all that time petting dogs because the job is boring or slow. I spend all that time petting dogs because it is a vital part of the business. 

You see, when a person drops their dog off at a kennel with a nice big yard and lots of other dogs, they expect their pup to go running out there instantly, making friends and playing games. Even if the person working is cleaning or helping a customer, the dogs have each other, right?

 

[note the dog that was accidentally drawn over a clump of grass]

Wrong. 

Maybe it's because dogs are pack animals, but also (hu)man's best friend. The pack believes it cannot function without me--it's Alpha-leader-gal. 

The following drawing is much closer to real life--viewed from above:

[I'm the one in the middle, in case you couldn't tell.]

Yes, somewhere in the process of domesticating wolves, petting, playing, and creating the game of fetch, we have made these animals believe they are dependent on us. 

(To further the point, Fraser is staring at me waiting for something to happen this very moment.)

Grandpaws has a kiddie--I mean doggie--pool and dirt, so naturally the dogs get pretty muddy. Then they jump all over you and you get muddy. 

Feel free to make a drumroll noise as I reveal (slightly better) pictures of how dirty I get after a day of hard work... drum drum-drum drum...

[not homeless]

[how this happens, I'm not sure]

Oh and I also got some brilliant material for anyone in the market to make a soap commercial!

Does your skin get dirty after a long day's work? Do simple things like playing with the dogs or gardening take hours to wash off? 

Not any more!

With {insert soap brand here} your skin will look as fresh as a newborn piglet! 

Soap-makers, you have my permission. Don't fight to much, finders keepers losers weepers is the working rule.

Editor Note: That photo is a close-up of an elbow. It is NOT a hairy leg, real piglet, man leg, or gigantic finger. It was taken at a weird angle which is why it tapers off so strangely. When I first posted this, it seemed so obvious what it was. Looking back, explanation should have been offered.