Redford was just a baby three years ago, and a lil’ goof-bucket. He’s still a goof-bucket, but giant, and an affection bully, busting into your embrace of another dog or another person ’cause what if your love runs out before you get to him? Man, I love that boy.
Some of you have become Dan NJ fans recently. I’ve been president of his fan club for a long time. Two years ago, I wrote about some advice he had given me back when we were roomies in Astoria, Queens. Excellent as the advice was, I extrapolated poorly from it and decided I needed to maintain a dog-shaped space in my house.
Meh.
I mean, if you set them end to end, you can fit so many dogs into 747 square feet, right? (Yes, this means I’ll probably foster again soon. It’s seemed like there’s one too few pit bulls in my house lately.)
NOTE: There remains a man(or woman!)-shaped space in my bed, for which I’m still recruiting. However, I don’t want to date to do it. I don’t want to email or evaluate prospects. I don’t want to set up dates, go on dates, or follow up after dates. I don’t want any of that. Somebody just come over and get in my bed, for Christ’s sake.
Sometimes I like to think I’m old. About five years ago when I got my first gray pube, I figured life was pretty much in the wrapping-up stage. And a year ago, meeting a cute boy ten years my junior made me start counting my liver spots.
But the fact is, saying it’s too late, I’m too old, is a racket I’ve been running since I was, like, 12. I think that’s when I decided I was too old to learn to ski.
It’s not too late, really for anything. My grandma started windsurfing when she was 58.
And I’m not actually old. If I start running that line of bullshit again, you have permission to tell me to STFU.
Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.