Scavenger; Or, Anatomy of a Name

I believe allusions have been made to a 'rotund and indolent' beagle.  The beagle in question is Scavenger who, over the years, has grown into quite the chunker.  Observe:

My memories of the day Scavenger joined the family are quite vivid.  I had been watching Christian and Chelsea while the parentals were out of town, and they came home with news.  'We bought a dog!'  I went with them to pick him up from the breeder.  He was the last remaining puppy of his litter, and a teeny tiny pup he was, to leave a concerned mother.


I think there's a fairly typical scene that occurs when a new puppy is introduced to the children of a family: smiles, excitement, laughter, shouts of 'hip, hip, hooray' and so on.  That is not what happened at our house.  Alternatively, Christian (who had his heart set on a German Shepherd) burst into tears and asked us to take the dog away as he didn't 'want him to feel bad.'  Then Chelsea followed suit.  The cause of her tears?  She feared the dog would be favored over our poor cat.  In hindsight, her intuition was spot on.


One crying puppy.  Two crying children.


The parentals: 'Um...you're welcome?'


All this greatly influenced The Great Naming of the Dog Conference.  Despite my enthusiastic lobbying for conferring the name Pippin upon him (because really, which dog doesn't want to be named after a hobbit), poor Christian was allowed to grant him the moniker he had been saving for the German Shepherd of his dreams: Scavenger.  He's also known as The Beag, Scav, Scavvy or Scavengero the Wonder Dog.  Take your pick.  He barks and barks and barks.  But she's the sweetest canine around.  

Look at those puppy dog eyes.  

 Keeping the paws squeaky clean.

The Beag.

He's looking uncharacteristically contemplative.

Chelsea, who took these photos, 

has informed me there was food involved.

My Hood

 As promised, I have some photos of the exterior of my house, street and neighborhood.  I would undoubtedly say I live in the suburbs, but the heart of the city is only three miles away.  It's quite convenient living in a compact urban space, because everything I need is a short walk or bus ride away.  My neighborhood is known for its student population, so there are always people about at night.  I'm lucky to always feel secure in the area.  The only downside to living in a student neighborhood is that broken glass can often be found all over the sidewalks (pavements here) after the weekend revelry.  This in no way affects me directly; but I must say, I feel very concerned for the dogs I see strolling the streets. 

What a lovely landscape of...brick.

Looking towards the city.

My quiet little street.

The house.

Photographic Evidence...

...That I can cook.  I just choose not to.  Because really, I have better things to do with my time.  

However, since I've been craving Mexican food to the point of insanity lately, I made a pot of taco soup last weekend.  While I chopped and simmered Gaurav told me, 'I'm going to try this.  Even if I die.'  

I responded by giving him a death glare and saying, 'After that remark, you might.' 

Over a week later, I think I can safely conclude no lives were lost due to the consumption of my culinary concoction. Therefore...I can cook.  I just choose not to.  How many times do I have to repeat this before people will believe me?

Dude Watchin’ with the Brontës

There are several factors that compelled me to do a Master’s at this university.  I’m not gonna lie, the fact that there is a class offered on the Brontës was somewhere near the top of my ‘pro’ list.  Charlotte, Emily and Anne are all included in my exclusive list of favorite authors.  Naturally, I had high expectations for this class.  While waiting outside the tutor’s office for my first seminar, I saw this comic by Kate Beaton (explore her website – it’s great!) taped to her door: 

I had a hunch that I wasn't going to be disappointed with my Brontë experience.  I was right. This comic was merely an omen of good things to come.