I have always been a cat person. This is not to say that I will ignore you and lick my own ass hole. For if I could lick my own ass hole, I would surly have no need for human contact and thus ignore you. But, aside from enjoying relieving myself in a box (a bathroom, not an actual box) I find that I get along well with them, and would stand on that side of the great cat/dog - person divide.

Then, I met Jim. Then, we fell in love. Then, he told me he was a dog person. Then we got a dog. then:

I just got back from playing with Ben in the snow. I play with him in a manner that, with a dog, can be called play. With a child, however, it would be called child abuse. He will gab the leash, run really fast, and then I will yank on the leash and begin to spin all 88 pounds of him around. Then, he runs at me, bites my arm, and wrestles me to the ground. All the while, passers by are wondering 'why is that man being attacked by a dog and why is he laughing.'

Through all this, I have discovered that, I am a dog person. I like child abuse (as long as only one human and one very happy dog are involved). Ben, likes the attention. Where as playing with a cat involves one pissed off cat and the question 'does this need stitches or not?'

and besides, dogs ALSO lick their ass holes.

It snowed for the first time of the season (Autumn technically, but the wisdom of the ancients did not account for the weather of the northern Barbarians).

The first snow is somewhat romantic; the possibilities of being snowed in with a bottle of wine and a cleverly used roll of duct tape, or looking at all the meat in your freezer and thinking of a rugby team on the top of the Andie's.

Other times it is like a first grey hair, or getting glasses: you can see the inevitability of growing old, precious youth falling away with each flake; only to be shoveled and cursed at, or turning yellow as someone writes their name in it.

But this was something quite different. Ben, the dog I have with (e:Jim), had his first snow with us (he is only eleven months, so probably his first time playing in it ever). He is a dog of a Canadian breed, so he likes the snow, and presumably Bacon. Watching him frolick around in it with the sort of vigor one normally sees in a less slothfull dog was a treat. Juxtaposed with the maudlin, melancholy earlier description of the coming of winter you would think I would have come to some life-changing conclusion about the cycles of life and the wonder of child-like discover. Instead, all I have learned is that it is easier to see dog poop in the snow.

Hello,

I decided to drop the incognito, AIM-era screen name and just stick my actual name down here, as it is available. So, I will no longer be making posts as (e:trollheim) any longer. I know! The tears of greif shall flow into drivers for us to drown our selves into! Or you can mourn like me, with a drink.

On this site I plan on posting my Buffalo-related blog entries from my other journal's (two that I post frequently, and a new one I have planned in the future which is like a fictional Truman Capote-esq gossip blog about the sorded lives of politicians, celebretes, and other miscreants.) So, I will get around to that toot-sweet.

yarg,

-James