I thought about writing on the Las Vegas shooting, but it is pounding my head against a stone wall. It already hurts too much. We are a people that does not even try to maintain a fig leaf of even talking about gun violence. - Trevor George’s Adjustment How many Cheetos can you place in the jowls of a bulldog sleeping on his back without him waking up? The answer is surprisingly 16. It really has nothing to do with the column, but you would be surprised where your mind will go when you are trying to avoid work and I just thought you should know the answer. (Before I get emails from animal lovers thinking this is animal cruelty, even though Cheetos flew everywhere, George the Bulldog woke up believing he was in Valhalla.) It has been over two months since George has come into my life, or two Kong balls, ten tennis balls, more rawhide that should pass through any gut and a tub of peanut butter later, however you like to mark time. He is a little still surly a times, does what he wants, doesn’t listen on most occasions, is constantly sleeping, barks at everything, and is afraid of thunderstorms, vacuum cleaners, even when they are not running, and white bags, any of these can send him flying towards one of his hiding spots. So, in other words, it is a lot like living with Donald Trump.  George just hasn’t figured out how to get on Twitter, yet. George also has the unique ability to realize when I am wearing black pants. He runs up to me, and sneezes on them. If you have never been around a bulldog, George is 54 pounds of head, muscles, jowls, and slobber; mostly slobber. We both are trying to grow. He has started clicker training. He is learning to listen more and to know that he is in a safe and secure home.   I am mediating and do yoga every morning. I want to release all the anger, pettiness, and tension that is holding me back, rid myself of potential depression, fend off high blood pressure and being closed off; basically everything that makes me a good Norwegian. I hear meditation is good for the brain, opening up pathways, synapses, and neurons. I will be one with the universe. Well, as long as the universe does not try to hug me. See the Scandinavian comment above.   The first morning I tried to clear my mind I had to tell George to shush a couple of times, as he began whining more than usual. I focused on my breathing and heart rate, tried to leave all the daily distractions behind, then George head- butted me, knocking me sideways. It was then that I learned the first rule of meditation is to make sure your dog’s bladder is empty before you try to become one with the universe.   Yoga, or bending a steel pole as I call it, did not work that well either. I got my yoga mat with Han Solo frozen in carbonate on it. I am a nerd, forgive me. I filled George’s Kong ball with peanut butter to keep him busy, and changed clothes. (Kong balls are hollow, hard rubber cone-shaped balls that you put peanut butter and other creamy snacks inside of to get your pet entertained, busy for long periods of time and out of trouble. They are the Jewel Quest, Farmville, or Angry Birds of the canine world, except dogs are smart enough to demand real treats.) I returned to find that George had decided my new yoga mat was an extremely comfortable place to enjoy the contents of his Kong ball, which had leaked out, giving Han a slobbery peanut butter glaze. As he spent a long time in an abandoned building by himself before coming to live with me, George lost a lot of social skills. He needs to learn to interact with the world again, especially other dogs and people. It is clearly not going to come from walks. Taking a stroll is not his thing. Oh, he can move fast. He is basically a bowling ball on four legs. It is just that if he somehow escaped the house, it wouldn’t be a doggie version of The Fugitive. Unless the one-armed man happened to be twenty feet away where George would need to take a nap from the exhaustion of making it to the end of the yard. One of my friends suggested that I get a baby carriage for him, that way he would go on walks. He would get to interact with the world, be visually stimulated, and there would be no worries about his laziness or hip dysplasia. This sounded like a great idea. I would get one of those three-wheel sporty jobs. George and I would have a grand old time. Then somewhere in the back of my mind, I picture a beautiful woman walking up to the stroller, the kind of woman that looked like she had fallen out of the pages of Playboy, perky, cute. One of the reasons you have pets is that they are babe magnets.  We would engage in light banter, flirt a little. She would bend down to look in the stroller and say, “What a cute…”as 54 pounds of drool and flapping jowls lunged out at her, “…baby. He looks just like his daddy.” To keep him stimulated, I take George with me when I run errands around town. He seems to enjoy parking lots and tearing up any paper that I might have left in my car, more the latter than the former, when I am in the store. This again is why his Kong ball is a godsend. If you have a dog and own a Kong ball, you know that in order to get at the peanut butter with their tongue, your best friend will often push some of the peanut butter deeper into the ball, where they are unable to get at it. You learn to take your index finger and insert it into the Kong ball and swipe the remaining peanut butter to a position where the dog can better get at it. You don’t want dried flakes of peanut butter throughout your house or car. You learn to simply run into the restroom and wash your hands before you begin shopping. At least that is the way it should work, but this is my life. If a very adorable blonde salesgirl is reading this, the brown smear on my knuckle, I swear on all that is holy, was peanut butter. I just missed the back of my knuckle when I was in the bathroom washing my hands for some unknown reason.  I know your eyes got huge for some reason when you looked at my hands, but I was sure why. It might have been all in my head. I thought about screaming, “It is peanut butter,” and licking my knuckle to prove it, but that would have only made things worse. Instead you are just another woman I will never be able to look in the eyes again.   Still, George and I have crossed the Maginot Line. He is my dog. Normal people show love and affection through hugs, praise, and kindness, we Norwegians show love through our bank statement and resentment. Poets might write about the pitter-pat of young love. Norwegians find it in the pain of a draining pocketbook.  [Trevor does not speak for all Norwegians. It is his comforting excuse for being an emotional train wreck.] If George doubted my affection for him, he is wrong. Our visit to the veterinarian’s for his first check up proves this. The check I wrote as a result of his appointment should have answered that for him.  Granted, he got a thermometer in the only place you can take a dog’s temperature, which caused his eyes to bug out of his head like a wolf in a Looney Tunes cartoon. It was not a good time had by all. He got muzzled. Still, I felt like the Cap’n in Cool Hand Luke. “It is for your own good, George.” George it appears, is still adjusting. Along with me.
I thought about writing on the Las Vegas shooting, but it is pounding my head against a stone wall. It already hurts too much. We are a people that does not even try to maintain a fig leaf of even talking about gun violence. - Trevor George’s Adjustment How many Cheetos can you place in the jowls of a bulldog sleeping on his back without him waking up? The answer is surprisingly 16. It really has nothing to do with the column, but you would be surprised where your mind will go when you are trying to avoid work and I just thought you should know the answer. (Before I get emails from animal lovers thinking this is animal cruelty, even though Cheetos flew everywhere, George the Bulldog woke up believing he was in Valhalla.) It has been over two months since George has come into my life, or two Kong balls, ten tennis balls, more rawhide that should pass through any gut and a tub of peanut butter later, however you like to mark time. He is a little still surly a times, does what he wants, doesn’t listen on most occasions, is constantly sleeping, barks at everything, and is afraid of thunderstorms, vacuum cleaners, even when they are not running, and white bags, any of these can send him flying towards one of his hiding spots. So, in other words, it is a lot like living with Donald Trump.  George just hasn’t figured out how to get on Twitter, yet. George also has the unique ability to realize when I am wearing black pants. He runs up to me, and sneezes on them. If you have never been around a bulldog, George is 54 pounds of head, muscles, jowls, and slobber; mostly slobber. We both are trying to grow. He has started clicker training. He is learning to listen more and to know that he is in a safe and secure home.   I am mediating and do yoga every morning. I want to release all the anger, pettiness, and tension that is holding me back, rid myself of potential depression, fend off high blood pressure and being closed off; basically everything that makes me a good Norwegian. I hear meditation is good for the brain, opening up pathways, synapses, and neurons. I will be one with the universe. Well, as long as the universe does not try to hug me. See the Scandinavian comment above.   The first morning I tried to clear my mind I had to tell George to shush a couple of times, as he began whining more than usual. I focused on my breathing and heart rate, tried to leave all the daily distractions behind, then George head- butted me, knocking me sideways. It was then that I learned the first rule of meditation is to make sure your dog’s bladder is empty before you try to become one with the universe.   Yoga, or bending a steel pole as I call it, did not work that well either. I got my yoga mat with Han Solo frozen in carbonate on it. I am a nerd, forgive me. I filled George’s Kong ball with peanut butter to keep him busy, and changed clothes. (Kong balls are hollow, hard rubber cone-shaped balls that you put peanut butter and other creamy snacks inside of to get your pet entertained, busy for long periods of time and out of trouble. They are the Jewel Quest, Farmville, or Angry Birds of the canine world, except dogs are smart enough to demand real treats.) I returned to find that George had decided my new yoga mat was an extremely comfortable place to enjoy the contents of his Kong ball, which had leaked out, giving Han a slobbery peanut butter glaze. As he spent a long time in an abandoned building by himself before coming to live with me, George lost a lot of social skills. He needs to learn to interact with the world again, especially other dogs and people. It is clearly not going to come from walks. Taking a stroll is not his thing. Oh, he can move fast. He is basically a bowling ball on four legs. It is just that if he somehow escaped the house, it wouldn’t be a doggie version of The Fugitive. Unless the one-armed man happened to be twenty feet away where George would need to take a nap from the exhaustion of making it to the end of the yard. One of my friends suggested that I get a baby carriage for him, that way he would go on walks. He would get to interact with the world, be visually stimulated, and there would be no worries about his laziness or hip dysplasia. This sounded like a great idea. I would get one of those three-wheel sporty jobs. George and I would have a grand old time. Then somewhere in the back of my mind, I picture a beautiful woman walking up to the stroller, the kind of woman that looked like she had fallen out of the pages of Playboy, perky, cute. One of the reasons you have pets is that they are babe magnets.  We would engage in light banter, flirt a little. She would bend down to look in the stroller and say, “What a cute…”as 54 pounds of drool and flapping jowls lunged out at her, “…baby. He looks just like his daddy.” To keep him stimulated, I take George with me when I run errands around town. He seems to enjoy parking lots and tearing up any paper that I might have left in my car, more the latter than the former, when I am in the store. This again is why his Kong ball is a godsend. If you have a dog and own a Kong ball, you know that in order to get at the peanut butter with their tongue, your best friend will often push some of the peanut butter deeper into the ball, where they are unable to get at it. You learn to take your index finger and insert it into the Kong ball and swipe the remaining peanut butter to a position where the dog can better get at it. You don’t want dried flakes of peanut butter throughout your house or car. You learn to simply run into the restroom and wash your hands before you begin shopping. At least that is the way it should work, but this is my life. If a very adorable blonde salesgirl is reading this, the brown smear on my knuckle, I swear on all that is holy, was peanut butter. I just missed the back of my knuckle when I was in the bathroom washing my hands for some unknown reason.  I know your eyes got huge for some reason when you looked at my hands, but I was sure why. It might have been all in my head. I thought about screaming, “It is peanut butter,” and licking my knuckle to prove it, but that would have only made things worse. Instead you are just another woman I will never be able to look in the eyes again.   Still, George and I have crossed the Maginot Line. He is my dog. Normal people show love and affection through hugs, praise, and kindness, we Norwegians show love through our bank statement and resentment. Poets might write about the pitter-pat of young love. Norwegians find it in the pain of a draining pocketbook.  [Trevor does not speak for all Norwegians. It is his comforting excuse for being an emotional train wreck.] If George doubted my affection for him, he is wrong. Our visit to the veterinarian’s for his first check up proves this. The check I wrote as a result of his appointment should have answered that for him.  Granted, he got a thermometer in the only place you can take a dog’s temperature, which caused his eyes to bug out of his head like a wolf in a Looney Tunes cartoon. It was not a good time had by all. He got muzzled. Still, I felt like the Cap’n in Cool Hand Luke. “It is for your own good, George.” George it appears, is still adjusting. Along with me.