Originally posted 06.07.2005

As much as I adore her and her people, the dachshund is too much for me to handle. The more people, the more food; the more food, the more excited she gets, and my reflexes are no match for her supersonic jaws.  “I could never have a hound,” I confess to my friends. Though I love beagle faces and basset voices and the droopy countenance of bloodhounds, that particular branch of the canine tree is just too food oriented. Ever the careful diner (frugal, abstemious, just plain mean), I can’t identify with a creature that would eat until it bursts.

But aren’t all dogs like that? “I can see you with a border collie,” says Marj, touching a buried desire. “Oh, I love borders! I’ve had border lust for years, but in the city. Well. I would never have a border collie unless I had sheep. Borders can’t be happy on love alone: a working dog’s gotta work.”

I wonder if they heard the “bing!” as loudly as I did.

It’s not that I haven’t tried to cultivate my inner French poodle, my happy lab, my roll with the punches mutt. But they’re all out of character to some extent. I’m a working dog with mud up to my knees, and when there isn’t work to do I start chewing on the furniture and whining to get out.

I guess it was that dogmatic nature that served me well in my third and final interview for a medical writing position with the city. Yes, dear readers, the long dry haul is over. The finish line for my four-year job search marathon is within view. “You seem like the kind of person who would be meticulous about meeting deadlines, and would have no compunction against marching into someone’s office to discuss the work,” said the assistant commish, when I asked what qualities led her to her decision.

Now there’s the battle to secure the salary I requested. It seems the city has this ridiculous policy of paying people no more than 8% above what they made at their last position, even if it means demoting them to a lesser title before they even begin work (I guess that would put me somewhere around ‘car park attendant’). But I’ve got the weight of the commish’s support behind me, as well as a letter from one of my editors praising my work and guaranteeing a projected salary of an amount close to the one I requested.

More good news: the hot club style swing band I started courting six months ago has opened their arms to me. Seems all that practicing paid off. As did training: I broke my former personal record for the half-marathon a month ago after diligently increasing my mileage by a third and cracking down on speedwork.

Look out, sheep. Ruff.