The Christmas baking has begun! Here’s what I’ve tackled so far: Sugar Cookies, Coffee Toffee and Vanilla Bean Shortbread Sandwiches With Orange Buttercream Frosting. BOOM!

I couldn’t do it without my trusty kitchen sidekicks. Props to Rolo and Karenna for all of their “help”.

I’m guest posting today at The Daily Grommet about how I’m having relationship problems*.

*With my dog.

If you were to comb through my very distant archives you would find many a post featuring Rolo, our wonder pooch. Since Avelyn was born, however, Rolo’s furry antics have fallen by the wayside and he’s been bumped out of the Number One Baby position in our household. He is quite fond of Avelyn, and enjoys french kissing her when I’m not looking. (It’s good for her immune system, right?)

He really is a good dog. I haven’t taken him out for many walks this winter because it’s cold but also because of experiences like this one. Owell.

Just thought I’d give some overdue press to my favourite hound.

Steve crept back into the darkened bedroom to give a good-bye kiss to me and Avelyn.  As he turned to leave he mentioned, "Rolo barfed all over the stairs.  I skimmed off the chunky top layer but you’ll have to use the steam cleaner on it pronto before the stain sets.  Also, I am running late so you’ll have to take out the eight bags of stinky garbage.  ‘Kay bye."

Now if that isn’t the way to start a day I don’t know what is.

I tried to sneak out of bed without waking Avelyn so I would have time to scurry around the house empyting the garbages and sprint to the curb to drop off the heavy, diaper genie poopie sausage link bags.  Garbage taken out?  Check.  Avelyn was still sleeping, but lightly, so I ran downstairs and dug out the steam cleaner and tried my best to remember how to assemble it.  Cords, hose, cleaner, what the heck?  I piece* it together and turn the beast on.  It is loud.  Avelyn is rudely awoken.  She begins to cry.  I keep on steam cleaning but something is wrong and there is foamy cleaner and water squirting out of random parts of the hose, soaking my shirt and the wall.  I try to go as fast as I can and do a half-cheeked job of sopping up the barf stain then run back upstairs to retrieve my shrieking child.

Though the day got off to a rough start it did improve.  I spent the morning at Angella’s house and we had a nice visit.  When I came home I was greeted with a fresh pile of Rolo barf.  When Steve got home for lunch I gave him the same speech he gave me this morning, "I scraped off the chunky top layer.  Now YOU deal with it."

Thanks, Rolo, for doing your part to encourage poetic justice.

But from now on, please barf on tiled surfaces.  

Thanks. 

 *I know I am jumping around with my verb tenses…past, present, past, but I don’t care right now. 

Jen’s parents and their two and a half year-old daughter are here visiting from Saskatchewan.  On Saturday they dropped by the orchard for a quick tour and Steve gave Jen’s mom, Michelle, some pruning tips she’d been after.  While moseying down the rows of apples, Rolo suddenly darted off into the gully and came back moments later with a freshly dead and limp marmot dangling from his chops.  Michelle shrieked in terror at the sight of our dog being transformed into a savage beast as he tore the entrails out of the still-warm marmot.  She tried to shield her daughter and Abby from the horror that is the circle of life, but to no avail.  We left Rolo to happily munch his prey while we walked the path to the top of the orchard.  Once we reached the yard, Rolo came bounding up towards us, blood on his lips and paws.  Not a moment had passed before he was on the attack again, pouncing at something stirring in a dirt pile.  Triumphantly he emerged with a mangled mouse firmly between his mouth and he trotted away to devour his dessert.  I think Rolo was simply trying to show off for our guests, but I’m not sure how impressed they were with his hunting talents. 

I am not entirely comfortable with the notion of Rolo swallowing whole creatures (he wolfs down bones, fur, eyeballs, brains, everything!) he’s stalked in the orchard. But Steve always says, "What do you think wild dogs did before kibble was invented?"  I guess I just wished they were happy little vegan dogs, gumming on grasses and pine cones.

We make sure to keep Rolo’s rabies shots up to date, and we always rinse the blood off his paws before he comes back inside.  What more can we possibly do? 

And hey, it keeps the kibble cost down.

It’s been months since I’ve slept through the night uninterrupted.  Perhaps my body is preparing itself for the trials of tending to a needy baby in the night.  My bladder has been on the offensive, waging war against my need for sleep and I have been having to get up to pee at midnight, then two am, then four am, and then six am.  Just as I have drifted back to sleep after the six am draining, Rolo will begin to whine that it’s his turn to go pee.  I try to call him up onto the bed because sometimes a bit of cuddling will distract him for a while so I can doze a few moments longer.  More often than not, though, Rolo’s whining does not abate and I am forced to haul my weary bones out of bed and let him out to pee.  The trouble is, as soon as I open the door he darts out like a bullet, barking like a rabid fool, as he tells the quail that he is their lord and master for another day.  It’s so annoying.  I usually just toss him outside and stumble back to bed, hoping he’ll be a good dog and just go pee and then lie quietly on the cement pad.  But no.  He barks and he barks and he barks until I finally drag myself out of bed again to bring him in.  Then he jumps on our bed and makes out with Steve. 

Usually by then I am fully awake and lately I’ve actually been somewhat productive in the morning.  Like today, I made puffed wheat squares to take to my staff meeting and also assembled our baby’s bassinet.  Go me.

Normally I am not much of a morning person. 

Or a night person, for that matter. 

I am good between 10 am and 9 pm.  An eleven hour window is all I’ve got, so I try to make it count.  I used to be able to stay up until the wee hours of the morn, but now when 9 pm rolls around I start brushing my teeth and getting nestled under the covers to read for a bit.  Boring? I don’t care.  Sleep is just so very sweet and I know I will never fell fully rested again once this baby meets the air so I’m simply savouring the last of my slumber. 

I do not have a scab collection. 

Which means that, yes…SOMETIMES I don’t pick up Rolo’s poops when I take him for a walk.  Before you shake your head in judgemental dismay, allow me to explain.  If I am walking Rolo in a park or neighhourhood I always pick up his poo.  But, if I am walking him in a rural area, and he’s dropping a log in an orchard, I let it act as a natural fertilizer.  Call it karma.  We live on an orchard and our neighbours’ dogs always meander into our yard and leave fresh nuggets steaming in the rows of apples.  And we don’t mind.  Farmland is allowed to have a bit of poop on it, don’t you know?  Between the marmots, mice, next-door dogs and transient workers, a lot of poop gets left on our property and we’re none the worse for it.  So, orchard poops are OK in my books.  Neighbourhood poops and park poops are not OK and I make sure to carry a bag with me to pick up such treasures.