Remembrance of things past.

Last night, while Ryan Seacrest and the stroke-surviving Dick Clark hailed in the New Year by showing us the crowds in New York City’s Times Square, Mrs. RWP and I stayed at home dog-sitting, an activity wherein one does not sit on dogs but merely watches them for their owners (our unexpectedly-visiting-from-Florida son and daughter-in-law) whilst said owners party with their friends. We kissed (Mrs. RWP and I, not the dogs) at midnight, which kiss was promptly followed by both dogs barking furiously for long periods when fireworks went off in various places around the countryside.

Our best New Year’s Eve may have been in 1976 when our children were small and we woke them at 11:45 pm and let them march around the neighborhood in their pajamas, banging on pots and pans with wooden spoons. Great fun for them, but I had to buy the missus a whole new set of pots and pans afterwards as we had not foreseen that they would be rendered useless for cooking in the process (the pots and pans, not the children).

The dogs, in case anyone is interested, are Sharpie, a four-year-old black Lab male weighing upwards of sixty pounds, and Jethro, our own five-year-old cream-colored Havanese male weighing about eighteen pounds. A good time was had by all.