And now it is the New Year
I don't know how your New Year's Eve went, but here's how mine went:
6 p.m.: Home from work in the dark. But oh, what a moon, what a moon, what a glorious giant glowing gold enormous blue moon. (That picture was taken last night by my brother in Iowa.)
9 p.m.: A glass of wine, some pizza, and "Murphy's Law." I want to be as witty as James Nesbitt. We think about a fire, but instead light candles in the fireplace. Wood snaps and pops and scares Boscoe, and peat, though silent, makes him flee, perhaps in anticipation of pops and snaps. Boscoe eyeballs the candles warily but stays put.
10 p.m. Off to bed with a book.
10:15 p.m. Riley projectile vomits off the side of the bed, making a huge mess of the carpeting and narrowly missing Boscoe, who is unfazed.
10:15-10:40 We scrub the carpet, take out the garbage, open the windows, close the bedroom door, and retire to the other bedrooms. Doug takes the guest room, and I bed down on the futon with Boscoe. But first, I lock Riley in the kitchen.
At the stroke of midnight: Riley barks. Happy New Year! I go down to quiet him, let him out, see if he's made a mess. He has not, so I let him back upstairs. He leaps onto the bed with Doug and goes instantly to sleep. Not so me. Boscoe has taken over the futon and only groans when I try to get him to move. He has pinned down all the blankets and sprawled across the middle of the bed where my legs should be. Plus, this is the room where the radiator is on permanent full-blast and it is about a million degrees in there. I open the window, slither under the covers as best I can, wodge myself around Boscoe, try to sleep.
12:20 a.m.: Neighbor's dog begins to bark. And howl. And bark. And howl. Right outside my window. It must be Abigail! This is not a good sign. I wait for them to let her in. They do not. She barks and howls barks and howls barks and howls until I think I might scream.
12:45 a.m. Abigail is quiet. She either froze to death on the back porch, or they finally heard her.
2 a.m.: Merrymakers heading to their car outside my window have a loud but brief argument. Then one of them presses the automatic keyless remote button for their car, and the sudden BEEP BEEP BEEP awakens Boscoe, who, in a terror, thinks it is the smoke alarm, and lumbers off the bed and down the stairs.
2:01 a.m.: Riley leaps gazelle-like off of Doug's bed and flies down after Boscoe. I figure I'd better follow them and let them out, if they need it.
