I know, it's a lot of pictures. What can I say? It's my blog: if I want to put up cute dog pictures, then I'm a gonna.
His name, by the way, is Elliot. It's half because of the associations with T.S. Eliot (noted Arsenal striker) and half because we just like the name.
His nickname is “Binky.” (Short for “Binky Bear,” which is what my wife called him for the first week we had him). I like it all together: Elliot “Binky” Lake. It sounds like the captain of the 1930s Princeton Crew team. Which he could be, if he wanted.
When we're talking about him, and not to him, we call him “The Bink.” It reminds me of both The Simpsons (“The Boy”) and The Wire (“The Bunk”) both of which associations I totally support. “The Bink” is mischevious, and boy-like (like Bart), but he’s also got the street smarts that come from twenty years of work with the Baltimore homicide department. I certainly wouldn’t want him hunting me down for doing one of them corner hoppers. He would have me in days.
He’s been a joy, mostly. As I remarked to my wife yesterday when we took him on his first outdoor walk (which he LOVED): we are SO LA. A small white dog. A fabulous-looking woman. An unemployed screenwriter with a cocaine addiction. (Joking). It’s enough to make you sick.
2 comments:
You will kneel before the Bink. You will respect the Bink. The Bink may be the greatest teacher you have ever had.
The Bink will show you the limits of your personality: here endeth my patience, thus far extendeth my tolerance, this doth contain the sum of my kindliness. And here lieth compassion beyond measure, love beyond words, joy exceeding limitation.
The Bink shall tell you who you are, for the Bink knows you better than you know yourself.
And when you know even as you are known, when the imperfect is done away, you shall bequeath your wisdom to the semen-sample receptacle of wave/particle vibrations known as the Internet. Written in water: it is to laugh. Ah, Keats, you microwaved drama queen, you had no idea. You did not know half the story. There, nowhere, are the blasted particles of a man so completely annihilated that none shall confess his existence.
In the Bink all things begin; with the Bink do all things find their ends. Here, with the Bink, endeth the lesson.
I believe TS Eliot was also known as "Binky" among his peers and critics. As i recall he did not care for it, and as a result wrote some rather gloomy material.
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