But enough about me

Let’s turn the microscope away from moi and ma famille -- French is so confusing; I’m male so I would think mon famille is correct, but it turns out the French don’t care about the gender of the person speaking, only the gender of the noun in question, and since famille is a feminine noun (and why that should be, nobody has ever explained to my satisfaction) a feminine adjective is required -- for a change and talk about...what?

Autumn? Every second blogger and her cousin are now busy this week showing you photographs of autumn leaves in their neck of the woods. Well, although the leaves are certainly beautiful in my neck of the woods also, I will refrain in the name of overkill.

Politics? Um, no. That’s all we’ll be hearing or reading about until this quadrennial thing of ours is over for another six months or so, and I wouldn’t add to the cacophany on a bet.

Literature? Not unless I want to put you to sleep.

Sex? Not even on a dare.

Jethro? Now there’s a possibility. He is an inexhaustible supply of joy. He keeps us laughing. Take, for example, his stash of toys. No hard plastic ones for him. His toys are all soft, plushy ones that he throws up in the air whenever the mood strikes him. And he always brings one to us in his mouth to indicate that he needs to go outside and do what dogs do. We are well-trained; we attach his leash to his collar and off we go. He doesn’t take his toys very far, usually dropping them just beyond the patio and retrieving them on his way back. I think some enterprising doggie psychiatrist should write a doctoral thesis on why Jethro chooses what toy he chooses to take with him on his jaunts, because it constantly changes. Sometimes it’s Whitey, the white plush doggie that is either a Samoyed or a Siberian Huskie. Sometimes it’s Croaky, the green plush frog. Sometimes it’s Charlie, the brown plush gorilla. Sometimes it’s the long, blue, plush, Smurf-like surfer thingie. Sometimes it’s Squiggy Piggy, which looks and feels like a lamb’s fleece (plush, of course) except that it has a curly little pink tail. But, as Gilda Radner’s character Rosanne Rosannadanna used to say every week to Jane Curtin on Saturday Night Live, “It’s always something.”

He also likes to ride in the car. He doesn’t stick his head out the window, though. He likes to stand between Mrs. Rhymeswithplague and me on the console and put out one paw to balance himself whenever the car makes a turn. Left paw on my right arm for right turns, and right paw on Mrs. Rhymeswithplague’s left arm for left turns. He usually winds up sitting in her lap and going to sleep. But if he hears the click of the turn indicator, he’s up on his feet again with paws at the ready.

There must be a doggie parable in there somewhere. I will have to think further on the subject.

And now for the official portrait, which is almost one year old (the portrait, not the dog -- the dog is four, and handsome as ever):