Repeating the Sounding Joy

Since the creeping, croupy crud still has me in its grip, Dearly Beloved volunteered to go shopping for me Monday.  Let me hastily clarify that by “going shopping” I mean driving to a toy store– not a chain giant, but a local store in a nearby shopping strip– to pick up an item I’d ordered.  They’d called to say that their shipment had arrived.

DB is not a stupid man and it’s a good thing that I remain firmly convinced of that because when he goes shopping, he does everything he can to disabuse me of my convictions in that regard.  He leaves his brain at home and takes his cellphone instead.

I had explained to him that the toy is a Nanoblock set–micro sized pieces which, when assembled, make a 3-D building that will fit in the palm of one’s hand.  I read about them and thought they might be nice for the grandson who loves assembling Legos–one time per set only–then wants to enshrine the completed masterpiece.  These will take up only a little shelf space so maybe he can do that, if his younger brothers don’t have other ideas.

When I put my name on the waiting list, the toy store didn’t have any samples for me to see, so I didn’t request a particular model.  I tell DB that he has authority to choose and while he’s there, maybe he’ll see anything else the grandsons might enjoy.  He heads to the store.

Ten minutes later, the phone rings.

“Guess who.”

I was expecting this call, not because he should need help, but because that’s the way he operates; under the influence of the planet Mars.

“Do you want the ones in the pouch or the box?”

Since I’ve never seen either and he is looking at both, why am I the expert here?  He knows the grandson’s taste and abilities.  Ovaries are not crystal balls.

I ask him which one has a set that Grandson would have the most fun assembling.

He is less than enthusiastic in his response, probably turned off by the tiny pieces.  In DB’s world, anything smaller than a golf ball is a waste of raw material.

“Which building do you want me to get?”

Didn’t we discuss this before he left?  My toenails are starting to loosen from their nail beds.   Déjà vu–all over again.  We talk.  I can hear the clerk chiming in occasionally.    Perhaps her toenails are beginning to curl, too.  Eventually he tells me that okay, he’s got it straight and ends the call.

Ten minutes later, the phone rings.

He wants to give me a play-by-play, even though I was there via phone for most of his visit.  He didn’t see anything else that really “got” him and besides, it was a madhouse in there.  All these women with babies in strollers and grandparents who have no idea what they’re doing.  He says that one old fart was walking around with his hands in his pockets, two rows behind his wife, and she’s talking to him the whole time, knowing he’s not hearing a word she’s saying.

I feel an immediate kinship with this unknown woman.

“I was the only one in the whole place who knew what he was doing.”

He offers to tackle the Chick-fila drive-thru if I’d like something.  I would.  I want a chicken sandwich, but will he get me a small vanilla milkshake with no toppings so that I can have it later.  It will feel good on my throat.  We disconnect.

A few minutes later, the phone rings.

“All right, I’m in line.  What do you want?  The usual?”

Yes, but…  I repeat–once more– that I would like a small vanilla shake with no toppings.  No whipped cream, no cherry.  Small. Vanilla. Milkshake. He tells me he’s at the speaker now, so we hang up.

A few minutes later, the phone rings.

“Okay, I’m on my way home.  I got you a peppermint milkshake. I thought it would feel better on your throat.”

Big Wheels Keep on Turning…

This is one of those weeks when I feel like I’m running around like a berserk chicken.

I scheduled the week like this.  What can I say?  It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Today there is just enough time to share a couple of photos before I saddle up the old station wagon to head off for another appointment.

A knitting fiend friend sent me this picture, taken in the SoHo neighborhood of Manhattan.  This has to be the cutest tricycle in New York City!

More mischief from BroJoe.  It looks like his bicycle is being hit upon, too, but not with yarn.

He calls it Double Trouble.

It made me laugh.  It isn’t often that one can see a couple of bicycles flirting.

Think of bicycles as rideable art that can just about save the world. ~Grant Petersen

Bite Me!

By now, because of all of our walks with Miss Piggy, we have met most of the neighborhood dogs.  Some are dainty doglets with bows on their ears and cute little raincoats covering their coiffed curls,  while others are just good ol’ dawgs that wouldn’t be caught dead in a dog sweater.

The late Howard Lee had a wardrobe which consisted of XL and XXL men’s t-shirts which still had to be cut in the neck to accommodate his XXXL large head.  He wore them, quite contentedly, to protect his stitches following his operations, after expressing his opinions about cone collars to his veterinary surgeons.  He also had several pairs of boots, to protect his paws from the Minnesota slush and salt.

Miss P’s doggy wardrobe is sparse:  one striped t-shirt which matches the grandsons’ pajamas of several Christmases ago.  (I have yarn to knit her a sweater, but it’s way down in my stash.)   It could never compete with the wardrobe of the ever-fashionable Stella, the granddog whose closet is probably larger than mine.

Sock Monkey Stella

And then there is our other granddog, Ivy, who has moved well beyond her initial Little Match Girl portrayal to a wardrobe fit for a Calendar Dog.  Check it out–it’s feminine, but quite tasteful.

Our neighbors wonder if they should assemble a wardrobe for their dog, a large, lazy Lab who spends much of her time on the window seat in their large bay window.  Look at the photograph which Dearly Beloved took yesterday.  Even with the glare and reflection in the picture,  I think you can make out the unfortunate scene unfolding there.

They’re uncertain as to exactly what article of clothing might address their situation before they receive an admonition letter from the Homeowners Association.

 Does anyone even make capri pants for dogs?

Heat Waving!

I knit, but don’t think myself a knitter… like I write, but don’t call myself a writer.  The enjoyment is there; the expertise?  Not so much.  I enjoy pursuing both pastimes, but I’ve done neither of late.   My apologies for not showing up lately.

I’m blaming the heat and Congress.  I’m weary of both.   Remember the days when people sat on porches during the day and children played outside, barefooted?  Yes, Virginia, there is global warming.  In fact, I have bad news for you, Honey.  At this rate, Santa and the elves may be drowning in a sea of melted snow by Christmas.

It’s a strange world.  God’s approval rating has dropped to 52%.  Still, that’s twice Sarah Palin’s these days.  On the other hand, Bank of America, the 19th most hated company in America, has a 68% approval rating.  Go figure.

All of that is beside the point, completely off topic.  You can tell that the heat is taking a toll on my ability to focus.  This is meant to be… TA DAH…! a post about knitting.  You don’t see me writing many of these and there’s a good reason, but stick with me.  I’ll try to make it a good yarn.

I am terrorized by those thin, fine yarns which make such lovely lacy projects. (See Exhibit A.)

Exhibit A.

While I can handle the chunkier yarns more easily, the larger needles needed for those projects feel clunky and awkward, not to mention that they hurt my fingers.  I’m hoping that my skill level will improve with both.

It didn’t take me long to realize  that I should just knit for myself since my gifts, like this blue scarf, may not be worn by the intended recipient. (Exhibit B.)

Exhibit B.

  My stash of patterns and yarns might seem excessive to some– a husband, for instance…  but since I know knitting fiends friends with a worse addiction, I don’t think I’m a candidate for Hoarders yet.  For instance, I do not have to seek off-site storage and my dining room chandelier is still yarn-free. (Exhibit C.)

Exhibit C.

(To the friends who might be blushing now… not to worry.  I’ll never tell.) I love knitting blogs.  I wander through my favorites then onto their blog roll favorites.  I love to see their FO’s–Finished Objects, (she said wistfully.)  One that I discovered, Mommy’s Monster, sometimes has product reviews and giveaways.  A couple of months ago, the blog had a review and giveaway of a most interesting yarn–YOSPUN by Matney Paine.  Watch this video at your own risk. 

I was one of the winners and Matney sent two skeins of the luscious stuff! 

I’m still trying to decide what I want to do with them.  I’m in no hurry to finish… not in this weather.  It feels so incredibly soft, though, I can’t keep my hands off it.  Especially when Dearly Beloved models it.

Wolf in sheep's clothing.

The Fungus Among Us

When we lived in Wisconsin, one of the shelves in our basement root cellar bore a black blotch which no amount of scrubbing would remove.

Okay, I gave it only one shot, but the previous owners told me they’d tried, also.  They had attempted to grow mushrooms from a kit and the stain was all that came of their efforts.

Mushrooms growing around the large old oak trees lining the sidewalks of Charlotte are a sign the trees may be dying, enough to put the city tree crews on alert.

That’s a summation of what I know about mushrooms.  They grow where they want… thus, the tag on a basket of funny brown things in the supermarket produce department: “Morels – $24  lb.”

There are mushroom maniacs who seek their own, like Dawn Fine, who records her birding, ‘shrooming, and travel adventures on Dawn’s Bloggy Blog.  Birding and mushroom gathering must be harmonious pastimes.  Might as well look under a tree while you’re looking in it.

Those people probably know the difference between real morels, which (according to Wikipedia) are only mildly toxic if not cooked thoroughly, and false morels, which can cause serious gastronomical distress and loss of muscle coordination.  That mental picture–really needing a bathroom but unable to get oneself there–is enough to put the quietus on any hunting-mushrooms-in-the-woods treks for me.  I’ll get my poison ivy in the back yard, thank you.

I’m a toadstool umbrella aficionado, a hangover from the Raggedy Ann and Andy books in my childhood.  I’d rather read about mushrooms than eat them.

I was especially intrigued by a photo of some carrot-like mushrooms on Jane Prater’s knitting blog recently, since we live in the same city.   I sent the link to her request, “need gardening help,” to my Memphis master gardening guru friend, Dirtworm, who knows all about growing plants, but, it turned out, not much about growing carrot mushrooms.  In fact, she sent me a photo she’d taken of some mushrooms growing at their river cabin in Arkansas.  This one takes us from the realm of “strange” to “twilight zone weird.“

As Dirtworm points out,  ”… so ironic that this is the place we go to fish.”  

What th’. . . ???

Hello, Dawn…?  Anybody?

Telling a Little Birdie…

My e-mail/knitting/book club friends are coming to spend the week with me.  Dearly Beloved and Miss Piggy fled to the beach on Friday to ensure that they would not be caught in a house with four silly,  loud women in sweatpants.

I guess living with one is bad enough.

The four of us have met in the mountains and foothills of Georgia, North Carolina, and Alabama.  This is their first time at my house.

If you do not have such a group, it is because you do not have a Birdie.   She was the only one who knew the others and she tried to organize us as a book club.  That didn’t work, but while we were turning down the book club, we became bound by our e-mails about our similarities and our differences.  Since then, we have passed books around, learned to knit, shared grandchildren (these women actually watch my grandsons’ basketball videos!) and bonded on many levels.

Birdie is arriving today, flying in from Sarasota.  I did not have to tell her the weather here–she tells ME the weather here, as she does the rest of us.   She may well have e-mailed  Dearly Beloved the weather at the beach.

Friday, Lulu sent an e-mail saying she was feeling sick and was going to bed.  Mr. Lulu is away on business, so she was home alone.  When we did not hear from her Saturday, Beanie and I worried that she was ill, but only Birdie worried that she’d had a stroke and was lying on the bathroom floor.

Here is the thing about Birdie:  Once she told me that I could call her if I ever got lost and she would tell me how to get righted.  I took advantage of that the time I was driving to Georgia and left the Driving Directions atop my car and they blew off before I even got off my street.  I never noticed.

In Georgia, when I became hopelessly lost leaving my daughter’s neighborhood, I called Birdie for help.  She said, “Tell me a landmark–anything you see” and had me straightened out before the traffic light even changed.  When grandson-sitting in Indiana, I took the boys to a basketball game in another town on a snowy winter night and Birdie (having told me the Indianapolis-area weather, of course)  turned me around from  a wrong turn and we were on our way again.  Don’t I have GPS?  No,  I have Birdie.

Her talents also extend to airports, yarn shops, medical information, and any place her googling fingers can take her.   Think Abby on NCIS.

The thing is, today I am to pick her up at the airport and she is as precise in  that planning as she is about everything else.  She has sent numerous links about her airline flight.  E-mails with her flight and time of arrival to all three of us are probably  in case I accidentally stick my gum on the note in my purse,  I can call one of the others. Birdie worries so much, in fact, that I want to reassure her.  She can read this on the plane:

Bird, Dear…

I am leaving now for the airport and will take the book you sent me to read.  I will be in that cellphone lot at least an hour ahead of time because one of your e-mails said that the plane might be early.  Call me.

My cellphone is now charging back to full power after my 2 1/2 hour conversation with tech representative in some middle east country about my e-mail issues.  My phone, my e-mail, and my ear are still not working properly, but I can receive your call!

If I do not answer my phone, call the Highway Patrol and ask to which hospital the victim in the blue station wagon was carried.  Don’t try calling me at the hospital; I will be unconscious–otherwise I would have hijacked the ambulance and headed for the cellphone lot.

If they do not have an accident report, send them to my house to break down the door… preferably not the one my unconscious body is blocking.  If I am beyond unconscious, as in… croaked… have me hauled off and cremated.  Then and only then, e-mail Dearly Beloved to notify him.  He is playing golf today and already has too many stories about my interrupting his golf game.   I wouldn’t want to go out giving him another one.

The rest of the group will arrive soon and you all can visit me in hospital or…um…wherever.  There are butterscotch scones cooling on the kitchen counter and the fridge and the wine rack are full of beverages.

This is all just in case, you understand.  I plan to be in that cellphone lot with a sandwich and my assigned reading.  Can’t wait!!!

Love, Merrily

Truckin' on out now!

Knitpicking

Dearly Beloved shook his head when he read yesterday’s post about the iPhone saga.

“I’m a freakin’ buffoon,” he said.  “I used to think you were a good writer.  Heck, you’re just a stenographer.”

“You may as well start calling me Arlo,” he continued, referring to the Arlo & Janis comic strip with which he often identifies– when he isn’t feeling like the old fart in Pickles.  He polished off his poor pitiful routine by looking around the room for imaginary hidden candid cameras.

Later, we went to an evening movie–unusual for us since retirement, but this theater has no matinee.  There is one showing for three nights only, Monday through Wednesday, because it’s mainly used for plays.  It isn’t used in the daytime because there are city offices around it within the same building.

It’s a very unusual theater.

From the balcony.

Carpeting and fancy embellished seats.

The theater has been around since 1858 and another one stood on the same site 50 years before that.   They show films that don’t make the mainstream theaters.

 

(This one–Mao’s Last Dancer– was truly wonderful.  Both of us enthusiastically recommend it.)

We sat on the first row, left side, in the balcony.  (That’s DB there on the end in the first photo.)

I took along my latest knitting project–another sweater– because I knew we’d be early and I’d have a little time to knit.  I’m trying to make a sweater for each of our five grandsons and I’d like to do it as soon as possible because the smaller the boys are, the less I have to knit.

The lighting was good, so  I was able to complete a few rows before the feature began.  Since I was in the middle of a sweater row when the film started, I kept on knitting.  DB leaned over and whispered, “You’re NOT going to do that during the movie, are you?”

I finished the row and dropped the whole project onto the seat beside me.  Unfortunately, the yarn ball dropped in the crack between the folded seat and the seat back.  I leaned over and picked it up, but it had caught on the fittings that join the seats and I’d apparently picked it up on the wrong side, making it even worse.  Throughout the movie I kept trying, unobtrusively, to untangle it, but doing the opposite.

When the movie ended and the lights came on, I immediately dropped to my knees in the small space between the seat and the balcony railing to see if I could unsnarl it.  DB was astonished at my dip.  As the other theatergoers filed out, I lay with my butt in the air and my face against the floor, trying to see the mess I’d made.  My husband stood in the aisle, his ass on his shoulders.

The reason I pointed out the age of the theater earlier is that the space between rows is tighter than in regular theaters.  The only way I could really see it would have been to stand on my head.  My knees were already up to my chin and my arms with squinched up against my body.

DB couldn’t resist offering a few words about the wisdom of dragging my knitting around with me everywhere.  With a decisive yank, I broke the yarn.  It would have been a more impressive gesture had I not needed his assistance in pulling me up from my wedged position.

As we trudged up the aisle, DB gestured toward an anxious woman who was practically dragging two ushers with flashlights over to where he husband stood mid-aisle.  He was apparently marking the spot where they’d sat.

“She probably dropped a knitting needle,” my husband wisecracked.

I limped down the stairs and out to the car without a word.

Arlo, however, seemed to have added a bounce to his step.

Knitfomania

Some of my favorite people are knitters and since they peek at my blog from time to time, I’m reluctant to post pictures or even write about anything I knit.  For one thing, there wouldn’t be very many pictures of finished projects.  My knitting is a lot like my weight– I’ve lost the same ten pounds a thousand times and I’ve knitted enough to reach your house– wherever you live– then had to rip it all out again because of mistakes.

My name is Merrilymarylee and I am a knitfomaniac.

When it comes to knitting, I am an absolute lunatic.  I knit on car trips… while visiting friends or relatives…  during hair cuts, and in the movies in the dark, before the feature starts.  I even knit in bed sometimes.  Never have I done so much for so long and accomplished so little.

(Muggers, be warned:  I am usually armed with knitting needles and I’m not afraid to use them.)

Now that cardigans are back in, I wished desperately to be cardigan-competent so that I could knit one for all the guys in my family.  My first effort was short-lived.  I knitted one last year for Elmo, who insisted on buttoning it over and over.  The button band tore quickly.

Last month I tried again– yet another one for Elmo, because he’s the smallest. Less to rip out when I screwed up something.

I chose a chest size that I thought sounded right, realizing after I was well into the sweater that the size I’d chosen was the same as my first bra size. Not impressive for a schoolgirl, but awfully large for a three-year-old.

I kept knitting anyway and tried to up its appeal with basketball buttons and grosgrain ribbon lining the button band to keep the buttons and buttonholes from tearing out on this one.

Last weekend I presented it to the little chap at the Elmo’s 4 and Grandad’s More birthday party he shared with Dearly Beloved.  He wore the sweater until bedtime.

The next morning, he donned it again– over his soccer uniform.

Although we were all close by, he wanted no assistance with the buttons.  Some things a fellow has to do for himself.

Ta DAH!!!

You think he looks pleased and proud?  You should have seen ME!!

Our Trip? It Went Swimmingly!

Now that school is out, the grandsons are into summer sports.  We love to see those chaps any time, but being able to attend one of their sporting events makes us feel even more a part of their lives.  Our daughters regularly text their dad or send pictures and videos from the boys’ games, so Dearly Beloved, retired Superjock, relishes every minute of being able to actually be there for some event.

This week, we timed a visit so that we could see two of the grandsons at one of their swim meets.

As I watched our daughter pack enough snacks and drinks for 40 days and nights on the ark, I asked was she packing be for the entire team.   She shook her head.

“The meets last a long time.”

I took along my knitting,  just in case.

We arrived over an hour early, per team rules, for the warmups and believe me, we heated up within minutes.  I don’t know about the teams.  There was no shade on the bleachers except for a few tents for the teams.

Anyone seen Waldo?

I was there only to see two kids swim, so I paid no attention to how many teams were involved.  With so many swimmers out there, I figured at least a dozen.

Nope,  there were only two: the Sharks and the Jets.  No wait–that’s West Side Story.  I don’t know who these gangs were, but I saw evidence of taunting and illegal weapons, like this:

Gas leak?

Someone  wrote the Events, Heats, and Laps on the swimmers’ bodies.  I thought that was overkill until I watched the organized chaos involved in a meet this large.  The  announcements droned on and on:  Event #– and Heat #–...  Last call for Event #– and Heat #–.  Stay out of the shallow end of the pool…  Even if you’re just sitting on the steps there, get out of that end of the pool… Everyone off the deck except swimmers and timers… etc. etc.

By the third Event, my backside had melted onto the cement bleachers and the sun had branded me a true redneck.  The meet was progressing more slowly than I’d thought, so now I realized the significance of all those numbers written on the kids. When Bubbles returned from Event #3 to block my view once more, I looked at her shoulder to see if I could get an idea of how many events there were.

Any numbers hidden in the armpit?

Sweet Nannie of Neptune, please tell me that 77 on her back is a tattoo and not an event number!

I beckoned to one of the grandsons  and looked at the numbers written on his arm.  His last swim would be in Event #81.

I looked at daughter for confirmation.

“Yep, you’ll be able to finish knitting that sweater.”

Dearly Beloved searched for a shady spot and found one on the grassy hill off to the side of the bleachers.  Someone had recently planted roses in the grass against the fence, probably hoping to cover chain links, but for now, I spread a towel on the grass between two rose bushes and leaned against it.  Chain link never felt so good.

Well past my wine time.

The lights came on at Event 27 and the sky clouded over after the sun disappeared.

The announcements droned on… people still in the shallow end, too many people on deck….

I continued knitting.  Youngest grandson kept snacking.

Raid on the family snack bar.

We weren’t even halfway through with the events.  Only Divine Intervention was going to end this thing.  The dads had 5-o’clock shadows.  The roses were starting to grow over me and weeds took over the grass.  Still,  the meet continued.

Would they find my body in the tall weeds?

Was that a faint rumble of thunder?  YES!  Another one!  Come on, RAINOUT!

“Do not leave,” the announcer called.  “There has been no lightning.  Swimmers back in the water, please.  Should you see lightning, please inform us.”

Another clap of thunder.

“Swimmers out of the water.  Take shelter under the tents.”

Um… would that be the tents with the metal poles?

“Do not leave the premises.  We cannot call the meet until thirty minutes after the first clap of thunder.”

A little boy nearby begged his mother to go home.  “It’s a storm!” he told her.

“I am a parent representative.  I will be the last to leave, ” she proclaimed dramatically, standing erectly as her electrified hair followed suit.  Her son ran to the snack bar and cowered under the eaves.

Another announcement:

“DO NOT leave the premises.   You may take shelter inside the building.”

Holy cow, do they have Swim Police guarding the front gate?  Apparently, the necessity of waiting thirty minutes after the first sound of thunder is #1 in swim team hierographology.

Lord, I don’t want anyone to get hurt, but one itsy bitsy zap to that speaker system might get us out of here.

Is this considered a hostage situation?  Can we call in the National Guard?

(I was watching a baseball game the other night when officials saw an approaching storm cell on radar and covered the field with a tarp even though not a drop had fallen.  Less than two minutes later, rain was splashing on that blue tarp.  That, folks, is weather technology.)

Accuweather?  Doppler radar?  Nowcasting?

“You may go to your cars, but do not leave the premises.”

More thunder.  My hair frizzed.  I am not a wet t-shirt affectionado.  I grabbed Elmo and made a break for it. The two of us sat in the car and sang songs until the thirty-minute mark finally freed the families who, incidentally had handled it all quite calmly.  However, the roar of car engines about 30.5 minutes AT (after thunder) made the Indianapolis 500 sound wimpy.

So… that’s where I’ve been this week, hiding out from the swim team police.  I have nightmares in which parent representatives with electrified hair force me to sit through 100 Events with five heats each…where I awaken in the shallow end of the pool to hear the Announcer cursing my presence there.  I dream of being shot with a starter gun, being surrounded by bubbles in the water….

It may take time, but I hope for a full recovery– in time for basketball season.

Circling

Sometimes I hang around the house for days without getting in my car.  It’s a far cry from the days when we had kids at home and I spent half my waking hours and a few snoozing ones behind the wheel.

Any regular trips I make locally these days are nearby, so I can hit any of my regular stops– the Farmer’s Market, library, and supermarket in a circular route.  The pet store, beauty shop, yarn shop, pharmacy, book store, and okay… Chick-FilA,  are all within that circle.

It isn’t boring.  If I leave home without my camera,  I usually regret it.  It’s a thrill a minute around here if one isn’t too picky about her thrills.

Yesterday I went to my LYS  (that’s knitterly talk for Charlotte Yarn) to see sock guru Wendy Johnson, in town to teach her sock knitting from the toe up method.  I’m not even close to knitting socks, so I waited until after the class to go to the shop.  I was able to meet her, see her in action, and have her autograph her books.

There WAS no action.  I’ll swear, the woman was using only the tips of her index fingers to make that sweater (nope–wasn’t knitting a sock) grow on her needles.  How can somebody knit using only two joints????  She says she often reads a book on her iPad while she knits, but yesterday she carried on an easy conversation as she worked on her sweater without looking at it.

Wendy knitting.

I could not relate.  I have to struggle to keep from throwing my arm out of joint when I knit.  No talking, of course; my tongue is usually hanging out of my mouth in concentration.  I have to put my knitting down to even read the pattern.  Bifocalitis.

I’d console myself that at least I’m using more calories, but I understand that Wendy has lost about 30 pounds.  There were no Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup and Diet Coke beside her as she knitted.

My LYS  is in a small shopping center with a supermarket, coffee shop, a couple of restaurants, and a few small  shops.  I’ve never seen a van like this before and wondered what in the world it was doing there.

Are there sock knitters inside?

On the way home, I did a double take at the sight of a couple of friends taking a bike ride.  I snapped this picture of them while I waited at a stoplight.

Man and Man's Best Friend

I’ll bet that dog gets a real chuckle out of watching dog sled races.

If Dearly Beloved would get one of these contraptions, we could exercise together.

He’d pedal, I’d knit.