Last week, my roommate, who is a Very Good Dude, went out of town and left his dog with me. His dog, who is named Laika and is very cute and has a mouth not unlike a catfish, followed me around all week and was generally her good ol’ adorable self. All was well. We were snuggling every night and I was generally blissful being spooned by two darling, darling pit bulls. HOWEVER, on Friday, after I went to yoga, I stopped at the Co-op where I purchased what I believe to be the finest post-yoga snack in the land: dried mission figs. No better snack exists, not one. I should add here that Laika is both incredibly nosy and also perpetually hungry–to the point of self-destruction. No, seriously, she ate steel wool once. I don’t know why. She just did. ANYWAY, Laika sniffed out my figs, which I had foolishly left on the kitchen counter. Laika ate the figs, all 15ish of them, even the bag they came in. After calling the vet and freaking out and crying and canceling my plans and changing into my big ugly sweatpants for a big exciting night of watching a dog repeatedly shit itself, I settled into the couch with some books.
That fateful night I read: Jeffrey Brown’s latest work, Little Things (about which I was lukewarm, as was the sort of very mean reviewer in The Stranger), Jeremy Tinder’s Cry Yourself To Sleep and Black Ghost Apple Factory (both which I highly recommend, because they adorable and I sort of have the biggest crush ever on Tinder, which is unrelated to his incredibly cute drawings but is still kind of important and worth noting, because maybe he googles himself and will find this and will then want to marry me), and additionally, I finished The Spy Who Came in From the Cold, about which my opinion did not change–it’s really quite good, and has the craziest plot twist EVER.
In good news, Laika is fine. So, yes, it turns out dogs CAN eat figs.
ALSO in the New Yorker this week there is a fantastic review of Paul Roberts’ new The End of Food which I am waiting for SO EAGERLY. The review also prompted me to check out Michael Pollan’s In Defense of Food, which I had previously been avoiding because it seemed oh-so-trendy. Also my mom liked it and if my mom likes something I secretly pray that I won’t like it because she also likes Paul Simon. Not good.
Soon I will write about the crack dealer book. The whole world should read it.