Woody lives here now.

This post will be as scattered as my belongings are right now. I apologize or you’re welcome. But I thought, while I was sitting out here writing while Woody works on his tan, that I should tell you about it.

It takes seven days. I know that now. He’d wait by the front door waiting to go home and when we didn’t go home, because this is now home, he’d curl up in the back of his crate and wonder what happened to his life.

I didn’t mean to bring the crate. I don’t use the crate for him because he’s got grooves on the back of his teeth from trying to escape a crate. I’d rather he eat my couch. But he only did once, and only a corner of a cushion. I stuffed the guts back into the cushion and zipped it back up and eventually his panic settled into a low grade anxiety when I left him alone. The worst he does these days is hide bread under my pillows, just in case. I guess. Who knows what he’s thinking. I don’t leave him home alone often and he’s apparently at least somewhat assured I’ll return.

But I got him a soft crate that a friend recommended for car trips. It seemed safer to have him at least somewhat contained. And when he’s in the crate, he can’t do what he really wants, which is pant in my ear. He’s better in the van. He still pants. But he’s down there by my leg and not my ear. People like to tell me he’ll settle down eventually. I like to tell them we drove fourteen thousand miles and he panted the whole way so I’m not sure what they mean by eventually but shut up. Yes I’ve tried drugs. He still pants but he’s on drugs and confused as fuck about what he’s anxious about.

The move didn’t require fourteen thousand miles. We moved from Hyde Park to South Austin. I wanted him to have a yard, and I wanted to have roommates. I realize that last part sounds strange, probably. There are downsides. We need another fridge for our seltzer and condiment collections. These freaks aren’t as excited about Below Deck as I am. But these freaks are my cousin and her boyfriend and they love my dog.

They work in restaurants and get up at noon after I’ve been puttering around for a couple hours. They leave the house somewhere around three and I have the place to myself. Then they come home around midnight and we watch something that’s not below deck or sit outside and listen to the frogs and watch Woody sniff around for the opossum that lives back there. And I like the company. I like making fun of TV shows with them. I like having someone to talk to.

It took a few days for us to settle into this routine. Half of what I own is still in boxes and I may never finish unpacking. I don’t know where to hang shit or where to put shit. I open a box and remove a few items and wander around trying to figure out where to put a thing. Then I set it down somewhere and pick up another thing. The kitchen table is covered in an assortment of anchors and nails, a blacksmith hammer I found in a field because I can’t find my hammer, three tupperware lids, a box of Kleenex, a vase, and a nightlight I should plug in somewhere but I’m not sure where exactly.

It’s too much space and not enough furniture. Maybe. I don’t know. The front room is sort of a dining room slash parlor. The kind of room my grandma had at the front of her house that we only used on Christmas. Right now it’s where I put the book shelf and the cabinet I was using as a pantry because my kitchen had exactly one cabinet. Now I have a pantry and too many cabinets. I put the puzzles in there but I don’t know what it’s for. Maybe eventually I’ll find a couple chair on a curb and turn it into a reading room. But I’d have to move Woody’s crate. And he’s decided he’s safe in there. So maybe not.

The movers showed up eight hours late, fifteen minutes before I had a podcast interview with Dani fucking Shapiro, a goddamn legend. I don’t get starstruck over movie stars. I get starstruck over writers I’ve been reading forever. If I ever got to talk to Anna Quindlen or Dorothy Allison, I’d throw up.

What I’m saying is I threw up. I told the movers help yourselves to anything. Everything on the floor goes. Everything on the walls stays. My roommate will meet you at the new house. Here’s your tip. And I taped a credit card to the top of the kitchen table so that my cousin’s boyfriend could pay them when they arrived. Then I threw up again, put Woody in the car. Cranked up the AC, and did an interview in my parking lot. Not as bad as the time I did a book festival from a McDonald’s parking lot in Shamrock, but close. Don’t ask me how it went. I never remember anything I’ve said. I just assume I sounded like a moron and I’ll never listen anyway.

I got done with the podcast and Woody and I went upstairs to find the movers gone, along with his crate. So we headed over to the new place. He liked the backyard but after a few hours of watching me move boxes from the living room to the front room and arranging what furniture I’ve got into something like a living room, he wanted to go home.

When we got up the next morning, after a restless night of trying to sleep with an 80lb dog across my legs, he ran to the front door like okay, that was a fun sleepover but let’s go home. He refused to shit in the yard. We took a walk and came back and he got in his crate. For the next week, I’d unpack, he’d watch or hide in his crate. He knows his crate. It took a while. Before I put the crate in the car, he’d avoid even making eye contact with what was clearly a trap. But I’d toss bacon bits in there and if I wasn’t looking, he’d risk it, for bacon. But not long enough to get trapped. Then I moved one of his beds into the crate. He was sure this was a bad sign and I had to up the bacon dosage and pretend I didn’t see his little butt sticking out when he snuck in for a hit. Eventually he associated the crate with bacon more than fear. And he didn’t even mind when he got in the car one day to find the crate, and a little more bacon. I took the crate out of the car because I needed seats at some point. Never put it back in because I’m lazy and was using the van for road trips anyway. And he decided the crate was a pretty decent place for a dog to get some goddamn privacy. It’s where he and his blue bunny hide from loud noises and possible monsters. I pretend I don’t see him in there, mostly. I broke the rule once, last week. When a friend asked how Woody was taking the move. I sent this as a response. But his look may have more to do with my breaking character and admitting I do see you, dummy. I did wonder where that pillow went.

But thursday morning, a week after the move, he joined me outside for my coffee, and then, instead of whining at the door for a walk, he marked a couple trees, took what seemed like a very satisfying shit, sniffed around, and sprawled out for a nap.

My cousin’s boyfriend, who I’ve decided we’ll be calling the Cajun, because he is, came out with his coffee. I didn’t have to say a word. He said, quitely, “Oh shit. He’s just chilling?”

I said, “Yeah. I think so. Fucking finally.”

And we drank our coffee and watched the birds. I’d put up a feeder a few days in. I wanted to make the yard more interactive for Woody. Birds are fun to watch and I could hear them, lots of them. We have so many birds. But they weren’t coming into the yard. There were squirrels too, not so much in this yard. I’m competing with a greenbelt for attention. There’s the fence and behind it, woods. A birdfeeder brings birds and squirrels, Woody’s two favorite shows.

The birds had finally found the feeder—first, a mama cardinal, then a house sparrow, a lesser goldfinch, and a vireo. I don’t know birds. The Cajun does. It’s one of the things I like about him. He’s a chef who reads more than anyone I’ve ever met, including me and every writer I know. He’s read every writer I know. And he’s full of deep knowledge on the most random subjects. The kind you get when you read a thing and need to know everything about it. He’s not the kind of guy who has to fill a silence. But he does get excited about birds. So he’d call them out and if I answered because I was stuck on the Spelling Bee, he’d point and tell me more. If I didn’t, because I was on a roll or answering email, he didn’t say anything.

I try to tell people that Woody’s not the calm gentleman they meet at first. He is. But the other side is hard to capture, quite literally. By which I mean, when the Cajun and the Cousin, (hey that worked. Didn’t even plan it. I’m just happy as shit that I can call them that and it’s fun vs annoying). Anyway. When they got home, I’d been outside mowing. Woody fucking crashed through the back door, slid through the kitchen, regained his traction on the front room carpet but not fast enough to save the lamp some dipshit had left in the middle of the room like she’s never met her dog, wiggled his butt and woo-wooed, punched the Cajun in the nose due to an unfortunate but all too common poorly timed leap, hurdled the fucking couch and charged out back to commence the real zoomies and celebratory excavation of god knows what.

Excavation is a new addition to the zoomie playlist. It’s all energy. It’s the side of him most people don’t get to see. The goofy side and the kind of bitchy if we’re honest side, and this, the teenage boy who just won the championship side. It’s all the energy he’s been saving for this one moment. That energy hits his brain and it’s gotta go somewhere. You can see him fucking vibrating with it. He’s gotta fucking run and he’s gotta fucking run now and he’s gotta dig and woo woo and chew the shit outta something and throw shit in the air—preferably toys, but throw pillows, packages, and shoes will do in a pinch. He has to charge full speed at you and you’ve gotta do the I’m gonna getcha fake out so he can throw it into fifth and fly. But here, he’s got a yard. And the about a yard is, oh fuck yeah. Digging. Holy shit have you tried digging? It’s so fucking good. You should try it.

He prefers the leaf piles under the bushes where nothing’s growing anyway. Which is nice, I’d like to get clover or something to grow on the lawn part. I don’t really care what. I threw down a bunch of grass and native or at least not damaging ground cover seeds. They can fight it out for supremacy while we’ve got rain. Either way. I can fix a lawn if I need to before I move again. God help me. For now, he can dig all he wants. He lives here now.

Bonus discussion of beds and reviews and why rich people are hilarious below the break. My goal today was to get everything off the floor and do some goddamn laundry. I have done this instead.

Happy Mother’s Day! Please don’t be a dick to waiters if you take your mom to brunch. One of them is my cousin. I will fucking hunt you down.