While visiting McCarren Park yesterday, Archie met and battled his arch-nemesis with great speed and agility. It was, however, not enough, and Archie soon gave up to play with a couple of nearby infants.
Sometimes I get Archie these all-natural frozen bones, which he loves, but then a girl comes over and she sees the bone lying on the floor and I say,
“Oh, yeah, that’s all that’s left of the last girl I brought home,” at which point I laugh maniacally and step into the bathroom.
She leaves not long after, but not because of the threat of dismemberment, but because when I come out of the bathroom I find that she’s wrist-deep in my box of chocolate Teddy Grahams™. I give her a look like, Really? Are you kidding me right now?, and then I slowly raise my finger and point it toward the door. She leaves, and I’m happy, albeit 7-10 chocolate Teddy Grahams™ lighter.
Dating: sheesh!
This is Archie’s and my morning routine. The dog will not get out of bed until I utter these words. Yes, the “morning routine” happened at 1:00 today, but I’m a freelancer, so shut up.
While watching “Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead” at 4:00 this morning, I tried to tell Archie, “This is really how the 90s were, dude. It was sunny and green, and David Duchovny was lurking around every corner. It was awesome and scary and petty cash flowed like a river in a dream.” And Archie just stared back at me blankly, so I say to him, “You wouldn’t understand. You weren’t even alive then, you idiot.” Whatever. It’s hard owning a dog.
I know this is three posts about young Archibald in one day, and I swear this isn’t going to become that kind of blog, but I’ve gotten requests to post this picture before, so here it is. This is him when he was 6 weeks old, standing tall with my little brother on the day of his senior prom.
I show this pic to girls at bars, and it works every time. Usually the reaction is, “Oh-em-gee! That is the cutest dog I’ve ever seen! Can I come home with you and meet him?” Getting a pet is an investment, but I save so much money now that I don’t have to buy roofies.
About Me
A filmmaker and Newsweek video producer in NYC named Ryan Jones, who also goes by K. Ryan Jones for professional and pretentious reasons. He reads books, waxes poetic about old Nickelodeon shows, and at certain times of the day has no clothes on.
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