That’s a terrible title, isn’t it? And it lets you know that this post isn’t about fun stuff.
At least, not fun stuff for Buster.
I’ve mentioned before that he’s a little territorial about the front door. Also, very barky, which is a colossal pain in the area. Especially when what he’s barking at is a dog walking down the sidewalk across the street. Our favorite is when he barks at small children riding tricycles.
I’ve tried lots of things to get him to stop. But I have DTADD–Dog Training Attention Deficit Disorder. I’m all about it for about four days, then I get bored.
Enter The Strap.
It’s actually called the Calming Band.
Back when B was going to Virginia Woof doggie day care one day a week, they used it. He whined a lot while he was there–could have been the other 25 dogs in the very small room that made him nervous. Anyway, one day when I came to pick him up, he was wearing it.
And he was lying down, flat out on his side, in the middle of the room while all the other dogs ran and played. It was like magic. Or, depending on how you look at it, like a couple of Quaaludes.
Anyway, I bought one. And when he’s barky, I put it on him. After I catch him, of course, because as soon as I pick it up, he runs away.
It’s just a piece of loose elastic that crosses under his chin and fastens behind his head.
The theory is that the sensation focuses his attention on his muzzle, rather than outside stimuli. It does something, because his behavior changes pretty radically.
Immediately after I put it on, he stands in one place for a really long time. Eventually, he just lies down–it helps if DF is sitting on the floor because then he can put his face on her leg. He might bark once at something that’s really close, but he no longer goes into overblown and completely unnecessary warning mode.
Immediately after I take it off, he’s BACK. All bouncy and barky and ready to roll.
It’s the weirdest thing. And also wonderful.
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Turns out that my client submitted a grant, and this email acknowledged its receipt. More importantly, there’s nothing I need to do about it right now. Or perhaps ever.
You’ll notice that I’m the only one wearing a helmet. In my student days, I had to wear a helmet while walking out to the plane. Most experienced jumpers carry them or clip them onto the chest strap on the front of their harness. Many don’t put their helmets on until about 12,ooo feet.
We’re in the back because we’re getting out first. There’s an order in which people exit the plane, depending on what they’re doing.
This closeup shows you how high you’re supposed to jump. And the plane is generally starting to move by the time you do it.
I often have a stray extra pie crust in the freezer. That’s where this one came from. You could also buy a pie crust, but I think that’s cheating. Which is hilarious, since I don’t think hardly cooking ever at all is cheating in the least. I am the Queen of Double Standards.
This is Buster’s favorite kind of pie crust. Because the odds are very good that a chunk of it is going to fall right off the kitchen counter. He’s always ready. I wanted to take a picture of him staring at the floor, but I guess the only thing more important than immediately eating anything that falls is being worried about having your picture taken.
Put it in a 350 degree oven for about five minutes, until it starts to brown.
Tomatoes. These are organic heirlooms, with a few Romas thrown in for good measure. Cut them into wedges and put them on top of the pie crust. Then put some feta cheese and Kalamata olives on top.
Put it on top, too. Plus the black pepper. And drizzle (which, when you stop to think about it, is a strange word) olive oil over the whole thing.
There you go.
Perfection.
That’s me from the back, wearing my rig. The wonderful Mr. M came out to the dropzone yesterday and took pictures. The red rectangle is the space my main parachute occupies; it’s about 6″ x 14″ x 14″.
All that blue and white fabric. (I know, I know, I’m doing that squinty thing I do all the time. It’s probably because a whole bunch of guys were sitting on the porch laughing at me. They laugh at me all the time. It’s just what happens, mostly because I frequently do things that deserve to be laughed at.)
Obviously, there’s a truckload of air in there still. And it all has to come out. Plus, all the lines have to be tight and in the center, and the folds of the parachute have to lay on top of one another, and then you wrap it up in itself and lay down on it in various positions to get the rest of the air out, then make a bunch of S folds in a long packet of slidey fabric and try to cram it into a little fabric bag that’s smaller than the red rectangle. And close it using rubber bands that are almost too small.
I want to care. I should care.