I came home tonight fully planning on sitting down with my Reason book and fully emmersing myself back into the shockingly confusing world of tweaking CV things and gate inputs.
This keyboard, albeit fun, is totally humbling me.
Morgan, somehow, can totally hear me when I am coming up the stairs at the end of my day at the office. By the time I sneak up to the door and get my key into the lock, hes already off the bed and walking towards the door to meet me with his tail wagging and that silly hound grin on his face. Hell usually quickly turn then, and rush into the living room to root through the big old wooden wine case for his favourite stuffed animal du jour. Snorting then, in circles around the living room with whatever huge stuffed bear or dog or hummingbird in his mouth.
This afternoon when I got home from work, I unlocked the door expecting that greeting, and instantly realized something was wrong when I wasnt met by his spazzy little display.
Morgie?
I walk my bike into the apartment, close the door behind me, and theres no hound to greet me.
Pushing my bike forward, I glance into the living room; no dog. I roll up to the bedroom door, stick my head inside, and theres Morgan on my bed. Hes looking incredibly sheepish: ears down; head on his paws; the bottom half of his eyelids hung low and white. He is only glancing at me, and then quickly looking away.
Uh oh. Hes been up to something.
I lay my bike up against the wall, give him first a squinty look, then a cocked head finished with a raised eyebrow, and turn and walk slowly back into the living room.
I see his dog bed in front of the TV, and on it, the shredded remnants of a plastic bag.
Shit, that plastic bag was full of hogie buns when I left for work this morning, but I obviously made the mistake of leaving it on the coffee table. There were only 2 gone out of the dozen that means he ate 4 of them.
I just put the plastic bag in the garbage, and sit down at my computer desk here. He doesnt follow.
Well, he finally came out of the bedroom and hes out here now, laying on his dogbed beside me, and for some reason I am seeing a huge amount of humour in the fact that the words Hogie Buns tie in so directly to the extremely pungent and flatulent results of his indiscretion.
Mmmm, gassy great danes. You are SO missing out.
This keyboard, albeit fun, is totally humbling me.
Morgan, somehow, can totally hear me when I am coming up the stairs at the end of my day at the office. By the time I sneak up to the door and get my key into the lock, hes already off the bed and walking towards the door to meet me with his tail wagging and that silly hound grin on his face. Hell usually quickly turn then, and rush into the living room to root through the big old wooden wine case for his favourite stuffed animal du jour. Snorting then, in circles around the living room with whatever huge stuffed bear or dog or hummingbird in his mouth.
This afternoon when I got home from work, I unlocked the door expecting that greeting, and instantly realized something was wrong when I wasnt met by his spazzy little display.
Morgie?
I walk my bike into the apartment, close the door behind me, and theres no hound to greet me.
Pushing my bike forward, I glance into the living room; no dog. I roll up to the bedroom door, stick my head inside, and theres Morgan on my bed. Hes looking incredibly sheepish: ears down; head on his paws; the bottom half of his eyelids hung low and white. He is only glancing at me, and then quickly looking away.
Uh oh. Hes been up to something.
I lay my bike up against the wall, give him first a squinty look, then a cocked head finished with a raised eyebrow, and turn and walk slowly back into the living room.
I see his dog bed in front of the TV, and on it, the shredded remnants of a plastic bag.
Shit, that plastic bag was full of hogie buns when I left for work this morning, but I obviously made the mistake of leaving it on the coffee table. There were only 2 gone out of the dozen that means he ate 4 of them.
I just put the plastic bag in the garbage, and sit down at my computer desk here. He doesnt follow.
Well, he finally came out of the bedroom and hes out here now, laying on his dogbed beside me, and for some reason I am seeing a huge amount of humour in the fact that the words Hogie Buns tie in so directly to the extremely pungent and flatulent results of his indiscretion.
Mmmm, gassy great danes. You are SO missing out.
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That or dive out the window, either way.