I'm a refugee again; Tyson's exercise program

Well, as pf the 31st I'm officially moved out my apartment. These last ten days--now nine days--I'll pass at mom and dad's in nearby Claremore. Every time I have to move back home for whatever reason I always swear it's the last time. But this time, I really, really for real mean it. (except for when I get home from the Peace Corps; that post-Vanuatu job search will be interminable).

Above is a picture of my now former apartment. It may have been a crappy little efficiency with spiders and other insect infestations and noisy neighbors and the loudest air-conditioning unit this side of 1959, but I'm really going to miss that place. Yes, it was a hovel. Yes, the insect infestations were largely the result of the squalor I myself created with my "relaxed" attitude towards cleanliness and trash disposal. Yes, I expended literally zero effort on interior decorations, so the place had kind of a grim, Soviet-era cinder block apartment feel to it. But, I was very comfortable there. I lived there considerably longer than any other place (not counting mom and dad's). I'll miss it.

I didn't make much of an effort to clean. Sure, I made a good faith showing of mopping and vacuuming and dusting/scrubbing things, but I knew the second I handed over that $300 deposit when I moved in that I would probably never see any of that money ever again, and I made peace with that inevitability a long time ago. Towards the end of thre move, I started throwing stuff away rather than go to the trouble of carrying it to the car. I just left some stuff behind in the apartment on the theory that they'll have to hire somebody to clean the place up before the next resident moves in anyway, those people might as well have to throw stuff away I didn't have time for, too (I also left half a bottle of vodka behind to soften the blow).

In other news...my parents have two dogs. One of them is a pug named Tyson. Tyson is a strange dog. He has many undesireable traits and bad habits: he's ugly, fat, cowardly, abysmally stupid, shamelessly sycophantic. He's also pretty much deaf. And I seriously think he's coming down with some kind of doggy schizophrenia--he periodically barks or growls at the sky (he's like a reverse watch-dog: when he barks we know nobody is there because if a stranger was really approaching, Tyson would be cowering in the dog igloo).

Of that laundry list of problems, I'm concerned with the obesity. He's nearly twice the normal, healthy weight of a pug and he pants constantly, even when he hasn't been exercising. So, I've decided to whip him into shape before I go. Today, we took our first walk around the neighborhood. We walked around a new development that just went up a short ways down Old 88 from my parents' house. As you can see, we encountered a nice little pond with a fountain thing out in the middle of it.

Really, the only form of exercise Tyson seems to enjoy and is willing to do regularly is swimming, so I thought we'd head over to the pond for a closer look.

Tyson didn't need any encouragement. He jumped right in before I could even get the leash off of him. He just waded through all the bushes and plants right next to the shore, launched himself in and took a quick little swim, lapping up water as he doggy-paddled (as is his custom in the pool, as well.

I was afraid he might run into a snake or swim clear to the other side and then go thrashing off into the underbrush, forcing me to chase after him. I don't know why I ever thought that. He never goes crashing off into anything.

I think he had a good time. And I think this is a much healthier way for him to lose weight than that doggy weight loss solution mom has started dropping into his mouth every day (I wish I was kidding about that: I think the vet saw Tyson's morbid obesity as a ticket to a cool $80 profit).