All Right, All Right

So after getting publicly shamed on a much more popular blog (I know you're reading this, Rebekah), I realized that yeah, I am a pretty crappy bloggist when it comes to updates. I could give you a dozen excuses like people do - thesis, end of semester, abducted and anally probed by aliens - but probably the most relevant lame excuse is that we have been in the process of moving to a house.

No more second story balcony dog

Now, previously I mentioned that Bastas and I were living in an apartment. This is really, really not recommended for wolfdogs for a variety of reasons that all boil down to "wolfdogs are crazy and need space". After a year of living in an apartment with Bast, I agree with this sentiment whole-heartedly. Although he is extraordinary chill for his kind, Bastas was not made for apartments. He was made for open skies, soft dirt, and room to really work the lead out of his legs, and I'm happy to say that after a year of saving, sacrificing, and countless walks to keep up with his energy, we now have a house and a yard for him to zoom around and crap in.

My favorite amenity about this house is the utter lack of carpeting. I may have mentioned we do a raw diet for Bast because of his kibble intolerance, and let me tell you, raw feeding in a place with carpet was... not fun. I spent a fortune in carpet cleaning solution and basically just shampooed the entire apartment at least twice a month.

Is this the real life?

I won't pretend I didn't enjoy the shampooing a little - seeing that nasty-ass carpet come clean was more satisfying than popping the biggest zit. If you don't know that sort of disgusting, neanderthal glee, you may not understand the joy involved, but those who have that gross trait in common with me - dat feeeeel.


Anyway, Bastas had a great time exploring our new home and actually did a hell of a lot better than I expected - he didn't try to mark in the new house even once and although he's had a few nightmares, mostly he just lays around enjoying the cool floors and extra room.

The naughtiest shag rug

On a college student/teacher's budget, our house is in an older neighborhood and has a lot of add-ons to make it up to 21st century standards. One of the extras is a funny little house in the backyard that houses a washer and a dryer. Since the house was built before washers and dryers, there was no connection for them and the homeowner improvised by building an outside shed.

"Shed" is not really the right word for this building. It's a little more elaborate than just a shed, but not up to efficiency house standards. Since it exists solely to house the washer and dryer and is a little overpowered for that, we refer to it as the Waj Mahal.

(I think I'm really funny.)

I've written before about how smart Bastas is. The boy is crazy-smart, and it's hard to explain just how intelligent he is to people who haven't met him. When you talk to Bast, there's a light in his eye that seems like he's actually, actively trying to understand your words, not just listening to your voice. We hadn't been in the new house but a couple of hours before Bastas figured out how to open the back door and let himself in and out. If I want him to go out and stay out, I have to lock the deadbolt on the door, which causes him to stand at the French doors and glare accusingly through the glass at me.

Of course, it wasn't long before Bast figured out he could open the door to the Waj Mahal, too, so now I have to lock that door lest he get into the laundry and spread my lacy panties to the four winds. I think most people would generally consider opening doors to be a pretty complicated task for a dog, and indicative of quite a bit of smarts, but here's the thing...

The entrance to the Waj Mahal has a big ass dog door in it.

I have led him to this door and showed him how it works many times, and yet he still chooses to go through the trouble of jumping up and pushing the entire door in himself.

Today, I stood at the back door of the house watching him as he pawed at the white door and casually let himself into the laundry hut, unable to tell if my dog is a genius or if he's retarded.