White Dog helped me choose the Sichuan items for tonight's opera
picnic. And then sort of shooed us out of the house to go pick up the order
(tonight was a carry out picnic) and head to Santa Fe. "I wonder why no
one seemed too concerned that we were leaving," I asked Steve as we got
into the car. "It is far enough into the season that I think every pup has
finally figured out that we will be home AND they will get a special
treat," was his response. "White Dog did have me order extra pot
stickers and shrimp buns just for the WDA," I agreed.
The food was a delicious prelude to the
Strauss opera, Capriccio, even if it had no thematic connection. "Sure it
does, momma," WD had argued earlier. "The opera is about entering the
modern world. What is more modern that being able to order foods from all over
the world and pick it up ready to enjoy?"
As we munched on steamed dumplings,
vegetable rolls, and scallion pancake a brief storm blew over the ridge and
added a rainbow for our dining pleasure. During tofu and vegetables with black
bean sauce and chicken chow fun the lightening danced and entertained. The sun
came back out as we finished with coconut tarts and strawberries.
The opera was well presented and
thought-provoking. And the rain had left the area for the long ride home. We
entered the house to White Dog shouting in glee..."Bring on the noms, no
chopsticks needed." All of the WDA gathered around Steve who was carry the
blue tote.
"What is this," he asked as he
paused to look into the hallway. Then, "Oh my, you have been busy!"
as he entered the kitchen. Apparently the rush to get us out of the house
earlier had been to make way for the puppy frat party that seemed to have taken
place while we were gone.
The hall was littered with batting from
the line of dead stuffies trailing to the dog door and beyond. Our bed covers
were pulled back and the sheet a work of modern beaver-ing...stick bits and
shreds and actual branches covered the surface. Steve clucked and I heard him
say, "Really, not one of you has EVER been interested in the toilet paper
before. What the heck?" The soap dish was lying on the floor and the soap,
covered in white floof, was in the hall. "Somebody got an icky
mouthful," he announced.
I sighed. "You guys. An entire Army melt down? There is only
one more opera left. You KNOW it is only a few Saturdays every year." I
remembered how several times during the evening, a wonderful night out, I had
stopped and thought about the ones at home waiting. I imagined how much harder
it was from their perspective waiting without distraction or ability to read
the clock and find comfort in knowing it would just be 30 more minutes.
I kissed heads and gestured for Steve to
stop and breathe. "This was dad's favorite opera of the season," I
told them as I shared a pot sticker with each.
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