Tuesday, March 31, 2009


First time I walked across the Brooklyn Bridge I did it with Anne when she and I and some girls from our Art History program at University did a three week trip to New York back in August 2003.

And since then I haven't walked it, silly me. Until today when Anne and I did an "extensive" Brooklyn tour and walked our way back to the city.

11th and 2nd Ave in Anne's glasses

Peeing your pants

Unfortunately these photos don't entirely convey how absurdly large this TV was. But jesus, did we laugh when we spotted it.

Neighbours from Hell



Anne's 29th

Today it's Anne's 29th birthday, and because Johan moved into my building today and had taken half the day off from work, we wound up going for a lazy breakfast at 7A, sitting outside so Trevor could come along as well.

This is a somewhat shitty picture of the birthday girl, but I couldn't help myself for publishing it because of the look of the guy in the background.

This one's better.

And look how sweetly Trevor behaves.

It turns out he's actually 15, but I'm telling you he has the appetite of a teenager. Like the rest of us he had bacon and eggs, pancakes and English muffins.

Hey, and for those of you who secretly blame me for cutting his fur, then I think this one testifies to how dirty and messy he really was.

Fish Cake with Cheese, anyone?

Monday, March 30, 2009

Dogs Galore. Of the female kind.

Uh-oh, my mother's feelings have been hurt by the comments of a certain someone (well, it's Johan) who suggested that Gaya looks a wee bit masculine. So she sent me these to make him realize how wrong he was in making the observation. Heh.

Foster Care

This is Trevor.
Trevor is Paul's dog.
Paul lives in the back building, but he's been in hospital for three weeks due to open heart surgery, and the dog has been all alone. At home, living in a smelly dump, with someone coming to feed him once a day. No walks.
I just found out the other day, and since then we've been going for walks outside.
Only nobody wanted to let their dog say hi to him, because he was so dirty, and even a homeless man hollered: "Hey, your dog needs a haircut!" when he saw us.
So today we went to the pet groomer down the street, where he had a proper wash and a haircut, and what do you know, on our way home, three different people, some of them with dogs, stopped to compliment what a beautiful dog he is. "Is he a puppy?" one asked.
He wagged his tail at all the attention.
I've fed him two cans of Pedigree Pal, and he's been drinking water from the toilet.
And now he is lying on the floor, finally relaxing, after having tripped around nervously for the past two hours. He keeps slipping on my floors too, and I have to come lift him up.
Rumor has it Paul is back in a week, and although he lives in a dump and never groomed his dog, I know he loves it to bits and pieces. So he wasn't maltreated in a mean way, or anything. He just forgot even a dog likes to look pretty.
At least that's good.


This is my mother's miniature dachshound having her picture taken. With a flash. Which apparently was a little too brisk for her taste.

Almost as good as this one.