First of all, I live in Stuyvesant Falls, New York. This is why it's called "Falls."
Simon is eating fine, not slow, as you will see tomorrow in the videos. Willy took awhile to warm up to me but I'll put him and Freya up swimming tomorrow. They stay close by and are fine off leash. Jasper and Bently also got cheated out of a swim, which I will correct tomorrow. Bentley is good now, not nervous either.
That will be in tomorrow's blog. Today's blog is about Hillary and Barack. Just kidding.
Anyway, all the dogs that got cheated will get blogged tomorrow.
Jim went to the city to pick up a dog today: special pick up $170. YIKES. Well, we do that. Ain't cheap.
Here I am in upstate New York. Four years ago I was a freelance graphic designer dressed in black, dragging around a portfolio, sitting at a computer and going to meetings in midtown. Now, my hands are so rough and my fingers so beat up and calloused I can't put my wedding ring on. I'm stronger, probably healthier, but fatter, have a farmer's tan and come in from the barn for breakfast. I'm happy about it, but I found myself looking at myself in the mirror and picturing this leathered, old man I would turn into, grey and weathered, hair growing out of my ears. Wait, the hair is already growing out of my ears. And my grandfather had the same and he never did a lick of real work in his life: he was a foreign correspondent, covered the Spanish Civil war for UPI in the 1930s. I remember starring into his ears when I was a boy, maybe 11, and being completely disgusted. Then it dawned on me that I would get the same when I was old. And here I am, and here it is. "Hey," he said, "what the hell are you looking at?" End of story. My grandfather here and here and and here and here and here and on and on.