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I feel like this could be a long post. Only nine words in and I can’t be sure, but I feel a buildup inside me, the same feeling of urgency to expel one has after four Americanos (Venti) riding in a car on the interstate and the road sign says: Next services, 25 miles.

Why the buildup? Been grant writing again is why, revising really, which takes the concerted focus of every neuron and synapse I have left. Talk to me when I’m in grant writing mode and my reply, assuming I could muster one, would be like Jabberwocky. Think Joe Biden on the campaign stump. Needless to say blogging stops until the grant gets submitted. Tomorrow!

Let’s begin with the weather! Bluesky lately and warm, that is warm in the sense we living here at 61° north in late March mean warm. Which is not what most anybody else in America would call warm; they may be generous and say warm-er or less cold or okay but room for improvement, but not warm like an Alaskan means warm: “43°! No way! Shut up! That’s awesome. Let’s go crust skiing in shorts and tank top!“

A moose was struck by a car and eventually killed by a state trooper the other morning. Not a hundred feet from our house. I was still in bed, Happy Wife tending to her morning ablutions, when I heard two loud cracks one right after the other. My first guess was gun reports, so I ignored ’em — irreconcilable differences at the neighbor house, maybe. Harry heard it too, he went off with a few dozen throaty barks stopping only after I shouted at him, Dude, Chill! For some reason he responds to Dude. A few minutes later I was hop-stepping downstairs, simultaneously (and unwisely) trying to thread my legs into my morning comfys, when I  looked out the front window and saw the traffic in the street had slowed, and then I saw the moose lying in the left lane, barely alive, a miniature fog rising from its nostrils. The two loud cracks I’d heard earlier were moose bone breaking against glass ‘n steel.

I walked back upstairs to notify Happy Wife, who was crestfallen at the news, and then back downstairs to the front window. By then a trooper was standing over the moose, gun pointed, another trooper farther down the road waving his arms to halt traffic, and then two reports from a handgun in close succession. .45 cal, possibly .44 mag.

Less than a half hour later the moose was removed, perhaps by the moose salvage people. A sad fate to contemplate, really, one minute you’re struggling to sustain 1500+ pounds during the wee days of Spring subsisting on frozen twigs and buds, and the next you’re in pieces somebody’s freezer.

BIGGER.

Occasionally we’re told, “Unless you have children of your own you can’t really understand.”

Okay, got it now!

The nieces were here for an overnight, to celebrate Happy Wife’s birthday, and afford their parents an indulgent date night here in Anchorage. The family lives in Fairbanks. Homemade pizzas were prepared, baked, and topped ONLY with white cheese because niece #1 insisted, with arms sternly folded, “I won’t eat YELLOW cheese.” Okay then.

Niece #2: “I want Rise of the Guardians!”

Happy Wife: “How do you ask?”

“PLEASE!… NO WAIT…I want Kung Fu Panda 2! … PLEASE! PLEASE!”

I drive to Blockbuster; they have KFP 2, one copy. Whew. But DVD, no BluRay. I drive back hoping the nieces won’t notice.

Movie is deployed and the pizza is served. Much of it found its way into human mouths! Some, however, was cached between and behind couch cushions — nieces prepping for leaner times? —  and I can’t be certain Harry didn’t take advantage of an unwatched plate. This, despite our earlier beseechment, “Girls, please don’t allow Harry to get any pizza.”

KFP 2 was terrific — sated on cheese ‘n dough we all settled in and enjoyed it. Happy Wife & I eased into our third (fourth?) glass of wine. Thinking, as rookies might, the calm would carry to bedtime. Suckers.

Spoiler alert: Po Panda and friends prevail in the end, vanquishing the evil Peacock. The credits begin to roll.

Happy Wife: “Do you girls want a bubble bath in the Jacuzzi tub?”

You’d have thought the boys had just returned from war.

Nieces (in chorus): “YEAH!! YEAH! Hot tub!! Hot tub! Hot tub!… (x8).” Much frenzied jumping and running ensues.

Happy Wife begins tub fillage and I shout a caution upstairs not to turn on the jets until the water level is…but this is drowned out by oven timers going off (cupcake prep), the TV audio at 100 dB or better, agitated dog barks, and gleeful shrieks of two pre-adolescent girls: “WE WANT TO SEE THE BUBBLES! BUBBLES! BUBBLES!”

I issue a final caution, which evidently goes unheard: “Careful with how much bubble bath you put in. Goes a long way you know.”

Minutes later I hear the jets start up and Happy Wife’s alarm, “Oh my, this stuff really goes a long way!”

Nieces: “Aunt Nancy LOOK AT OUR BEARDS! LOOK AT OUR BEARDS! MAKE A BEARD! MAKE A BEARD!”

There is bubble foam oozing onto the bathroom floor. The oven timer goes off, the cupcakes are done. I steal another therapeutic pour of wine.

Nieces reappear downstairs in their jams and robes. Soothed and serene. It’s 8:30. Parental instructions were: In bed by 8:30, 9:00 at the latest.

Right. Half hour left. What better way to induce pre-bedtime drowsiness than sugar!

Niece #2 erupts: “CUPCAKES!”

Niece #1 crescendos: “YEAH! CUPCAKES!”

I jump up. The dogs jump up. Quiet has ruptured, again.

A flurry of activity ensues in the kitchen and spills over to the dining room.

Cupcakes are liberally smeared with frosting, but chairs and table get some too! Niece #2 makes one just for me and hand delivers it to the chair where I’m seated recovering. Vanilla with pink speckles! Delicious. I note my wine glass: Empty, again.

Candles are placed, matches played with, and we all sing happy birthday to Happy Wife:

Sugar is fast-acting. Before long the lower floor becomes a track ‘n field course. The nieces are running laps. Harry snarls when one runs too close. Happy Wife’s eyes meet mine. We hold the stare a moment and say nothing, smile and shake our heads.

Time has passed. I’ve grown older. Nieces say good night to me, and Happy Wife encourages them upstairs to their bedroom, a stop in the bathroom for pre-adolescent ablutions. Then niece #2 reappears downstairs, gives me the shush sign, and proceeds to head for cupcakes.

I practice my new found skill: “Why don’t we wait until breakfast to have another cupcake, Honey?” She considers this briefly, eventually conceding the wisdom of my advice. I decant the last glass of Amarone and return to my chair.

The prior day niece #1 had lost a tooth which she carefully places bedside. By morning it has been replaced by a silver bullion liberty dollar. We all agree over waffle breakfast who did this, and how beautiful it is!

Parents arrive to pick up their children and return to Fairbanks. We ask, “How was your evening?” Great. Wonderful. Ours? Oh, we had a grand time. They were angels, no trouble at all.

Touched the weather widget on my phone last night to see the 5-day forecast. Present evening temperature? Minus zero (-0). I wondered how this differed from plus zero (+0).

No worries. By Saturday it will be 45°! Better yet, the weatherlady on TV said there is a 40% chance of Spring! Better than -40%, right?

Harry threw up late last night on the snow in the backyard. Happy Wife, who had gotten up to let him out, retrieved it, brought it inside, and inspected it like one inspects crime scene evidence. Nothing suspicious — undigested kibble and green beans. We were made aware when we adopted Harry that he has gastric torsion. This is a life-threatening condition in a dog when it occurs, but manageable over time if he survives. He’s a frenetic eater and to avoid another torsion event we deliberately slow him down by feeding him a handful of kibble at a time. If we fed him what we feed Lucy — beef, rice, beans — we fear he’d scarf it up way too fast for his own good. After last night we’re going to return to feeding him Beneful (from Iams), which, despite our misgivings, does appear to agree with his sensitive GI tract.

Oh, and would you look at that, the sun has just breached the Chugach mountains and is now beaming through the kitchen window. It’ll be with us today until 8:33 pm, past 9:00 pm come April. Take that winter!

Told you so, the lion and lamb forgot their order.

10-12 inches of snow last night, more in some places about town.

Was the national press a-twitter with our misfortune? No, of course not. But five inches and thirty-four in Cincinnati, a calamity!

Whatever.

Drove Lucy and Harry to Kincaid park for a walk anyway. Roads were unplowed, no visible pavement, an edgeless landscape of white. Navigation was by memory, or sans that, follow the driver in front of you and hope she knows. Even our 6-cyl, 4WD Outback, ordinarily an invincible beast, bucked ‘n chugged.

Alas, we arrived safely and pulled into the parking lot, steering to stay in the deep tracks of a vehicle that had gone before us, feeling the undercarriage shave flat the high mound of snow between. Harry’s a sweet boy, patient, well-behaved, good with other dogs, likes Lucy, etc. etc., but just park the car and grab a leash and he’s in the front seat with you anxious to get out before you know it.

We trudged through knee-deep (my knees) snow until we reached the established trail. Unless you didn’t know there was a trail, in which case your only clue today would’ve been that the snow was suddenly slightly less deep. I know these trails as well as anyone, so even covered in 10-12″ of fresh snow, boundaries indistinguishable, we navigated them with relative ease. Harry somewhat less confidently, tacking back ‘n forth on a long lead (temporary until we get to know and trust him off lead), and Lucy — The Streak — bounding effortlessly ahead, blazing trail. Total showoff that girl.

After the walk we drove back home and I fed the beasts. They both appeared tuckered out.

Some people have wondered why we did it, why adopt an elder Airedale? That’s a fair question. My answer is he’s a sweet boy and we were ready to give another rescue a chance, and I’m partial to Airedales. Plus Harry isn’t technically a rescue, he was surrendered by his family of nearly 11 years, for reasons we don’t really understand, but pretty clearly they took good care of him, he’s certainly a vital 11-yr old, and so Happy Wife and I agreed we’d like to care for him in his sunset years.

Q: “Sure, but aren’t you concerned, you know, given his age ‘n all, that, well, you know.”

A: It’s less about how many years you have left, more about how well they’re lived.

BIGGER.

Black tie pair.

BIGGER.

Black tie event tonight. Funny, coming up in the seventies and early eighties, being sneeringly sloven was the rebuke of choice against parental-approved dress code norms. It began with a boyhood disdain for pleated pants; looking nice for others — and who else could it be for, I’d thought, certainly not me — was a mark of obsequiousness, as far this young rebel was concerned it was. Unpressed corduroys, patch-worn the better, a tie dye shirt and sneakers bandaged with duct tape, those were the rags of revolt. I wanted to wear them everywhere!

Heroes change and norms follow. Sebastian and Joplin were cool, sure, but then Fleming came and brought us Bond, the James Bond, who got the girl, always. And why?

Cue ZZ:

Clean shirt, new shoes
And I don’t know where I am goin’ to.
Silk suit,black tie,
I don’t need a reason why.
They come runnin’ just as fast as they can
Coz’ every girl’s crazy ’bout a sharp dressed man

That’s why. And so it is still, you want the girl, you appeal to what sets them crazy.

Joplin ‘n Hendrix? Oh, they’re still here, brightly swirled tanks and tees folded and reverently laid in a drawer. Beneath my sock drawer! Ready ‘n waiting when wanted to awaken the rebel within.

But not tonight.

Tonight at Raven’s Ball we men will set the ladies a-swooning, dapperly, in the convention of post six pm dress introduced during, and unchanged since, the reign of King Edward. Dear Readers, please, permit my indulgence: I will be dressed in a Tuxedo.

Spammers were all worked up today. They come in waves. Must’ve had >40 get caught in the ol’ spam filter just today. There are days when I want to reach back and tell them, “Look, if I want to buy the Happy Wife a pair of Christian Louboutin red bottom heels — and someday I may — I’ll e-mail you, ‘kay?”

Come to think of it, her birthday is nigh.Hmm.

But alas, I already got her a leather jacket,

which I must say goes quite well with the after-work smile and Sauv Blanc. That, and lately, her boo boo knee has her confined to wearing heels of a more modest height.

I do hope you don’t tire of me talking about her, and other sundry goings-on in our day-to-day life. I’ve never wanted blogging to become, for me anyway, anything but what it was originally intended to be, a fluid journal of personal thought. A public diary really. A motivation to write. I’ve never liked that long ago blogging was co-opted by many to showcase special interest, e.g., politics, and suddenly a blog had to have a theme, lest would-be readers were left to wonder: I don’t get it, what’s the point? Don’t get me wrong, when I go to Instapundit I go there with an expectation, to find content that interests me. I appreciate that. But it’s not a blog; not anymore it isn’t. It’s what I call a Linkery. And evidently a vector for selling stuff the sponsors of the site want me to click ‘n buy. Possibly Christian Louboutin red bottom heels.

Harry is coming to our house Sunday for his debut visit. It’s been less than a year since the Tan Man left us. I like to think Rufus would approve of us caring for Harry for the remainder of his life.

This just in — we’re probably going to adopt Harry.

Harry is an eleven year old Airedale.

Pictures from a party this weekend at our Beach Nest:

An old, abandoned AK rail-car ~200′ down the road from the Nest:

BIGGER.

Walk w/Lucy along the beach. Port and city of Seward in the distance, tucked in at the terminus of Resurrection Bay.

BIGGER.

Lucy on the berm. Can you spot the hide tide line?

BIGGER.

Another beached ‘n stranded jelly fish.

BIGGER.

Happy Wife ‘n girl friends beach comb.

BIGGER.