Photo: Augusta Quirk / IFC
As many of you know if you follow me or my esteemed colleague/spouse David T. Cole on any kind of social media, you will know that, last year, we expanded the size of our household to the tune of one dog. And if you had followed us at all before that, you will know that Dave had spent several years lobbying for a dog and that I had been resisting for some years, mostly based on a deal we had struck -- which we SHOOK ON and was WITNESSED, and therefore STOOD AS A BINDING LEGAL CONTRACT, as far as I was concerned -- that we would hold off on getting a dog until we had a yard. But in a moment of weakness, I relented, and Dave found not the wiener dog he'd always wanted, but a ninety-pound Pointer/Dane mix we named Gordon Lightfoot.
Actually, Gordon was eighty-four pounds when we got him; he's put on a few since then because he gets showered with treats (or "troots," as they are known in Dog-ese) both from the man who wanted him so desperately and the lady who grudgingly agreed to adopt him and then fell crazy in love with him, because duh, who wouldn't, look at that adorable idiot face!
All this is by way of saying that this sketch from the latest Portlandia really resonated with me. And not just because just a few minutes before we watched it, I didn't feel like getting my arms out from under the quilt so Dave put a ginger snap in my mouth pretty much like he does with Gordon's Dentastix, except that I didn't have to sit or shake to get it.