Old dog.

Aug 24, 2025

I don't mean to boast, but approximately 7 years after being ‘rescued’ from the dog pound, Arthur has now decided he’s willing to be trained. He can sit on command (when he feels like it), lie down (again, when he feels like it), and will look you in the eye if you say, “Look at me” (apart from if there’s pizza in the room in which case, he’s not going to look at anything else.)

So, clearly the saying “You can't teach an old dog new tricks” is not entirely true because at a sterling nine and a half years old, Arthur is no puppy.

And it’s not been the only interesting surprise here at Tweddley Manor. For a start, almost 12 days into my post-surgical liquid diet, it’s frankly remarkable that I haven’t yet killed anyone. But the most remarkable thing is that Lachlan passed his driving test, first time.

He has taken to driving like a duck to water. He now drives himself to and from school. There's no getting him up in the morning, and feeding him breakfast, and then off on the school run. Instead, he cooks his own breakfast and drives to classes himself. After years of morning chaos and responsibilities, Mark and I are no longer required. As a parent, I feel simultaneously incredibly proud and completely redundant.

Fergus too, has gotten in the act. Still at college, but determined to have his independence, he’s landed a part-time job working with kids with special needs. He spent the Summer online in training, learning about their needs and how to manage challenges, and though I’d love to tell you more, every time I ask, he informs me about the dangers of HIPAA violations.

I am heart full and stomach empty. Looking at both boys venturing out on this (frankly, pretty fucked up) world with relative confidence, I feel like (as mental as the future looks right now) everything just might work out fine in the end.

Especially if at some point in the future I get to move on from frickin’ soup, or yoghurt, and maybe, just maybe one day, have a sandwich.

Actually, health-wise wise I do feel better than I did before the surgery, which is a little weird. I’m not loving the pottering about, making sure you’re ‘resting’ and all that sort of stuff. Then again, ‘resting’ is one of those things that’s only fun if it’s not under advisement. Resting is brilliant when you’re kicking back after a challenge, and laughing at all the mischief you got up to. It doesn't have quite the same flair when you’re kicking back and wondering if next week, when you meet the doctor, he’ll let you progress on to creamed corn.

Anyhoos, spurred on by Arthur and Lachlan and Fergus, it has crossed my mind that even in my currently deficient state, I am not beyond learning a new skill.

And, conveniently, this week I was given the very opportunity.

So I went out one night this week - like I say I am actually feeling better. I put on real clothes and everything. Mark had been a little concerned it was too soon, but seeing the look in my eye when I said I was going, opted to take on the role of glamorous assistant rather than camp commandant.

And it was truly, truly brilliant to be with other people for a while, and not confined within my own thoughts. But then, a guy at the event (who, to be honest, is not my particular flavor) did a bad, or rather a sequence of really pretty damned ignorant things. And I found myself angry.

For the purposes of this Note, what he did doesn’t really matter. (No children or animals were harmed in the experiment) What my point is, is that for the whole night, even though I knew I was lucky to be out, and surrounded by people I liked, my anger about what the guy had done hung about me like a bad smell.

I’m not going to say it wasted the night, but when I got back home, I thought to myself that maybe if you manage to get out of the house one single night, it’s a waste of time spending any part of it feeling anything other than appreciation.

You know, when my kids were younger, and not off driving themselves places or intensely scrutinizing the risk of HIPAA violations, I’d often say, “Never argue with a pig because you both get dirty and the pig enjoys it,” as a way to handle kids who were kicking off and looking for trouble. And I think they found that useful.

But as I sat at home after my one night out, I thought to myself how, at least you might get some sort of aerobic exercise by arguing with a pig, but being angry with a moron is pointless, because, well you’re angry with …. a moron.

And there's so many of them around. Jeez. We live in an era when being a moron is like an actual profession. People are actually making entire careers out of saying the most offensive things possible and behaving like jerks.

‘Resting’ on my chair, I thought about how often I felt angry. I realized it was a lot. Not full-on fury, not every day. I have a day-to-day periodic rage maybe. Occasional acrimony. Generally never about anything that’s going on in my home. But always, always, I have the low burr of annoyance on standby. And I never used to be that way.

The realization was as unpleasant as a two-week liquid diet.

We live in an unfair world, and there’s plenty to get mad about. But aside from that, every day through the marvels of modern technology, I am accessible to both amateur and professional morons. At some point, somewhere along the line, I have biologically adapted. So, though once long ago I used to wake in the morning and wonder what’s for breakfast, I now wake in the morning, pick up my phone, and fully prepare to be outraged.

And yet, I am a very lucky woman. My Dad died of the thing my wee French surgeon has just saved me from. Even though my body is beaten up and I’m currently only allowed to drink my dinner, I have literally just been given a new lease of life.

Yet what do I do on my first night out in real clothes? Bathe in gratitude? Ponder about how many great things it’s possible to do? No. I find myself angered by the behavior of a common or garden moron. Because I’m used to being angry. I’ve been trained. Instead of taking some point in my day to consider the possibilities of what I might want to do with my life, I now spend that time nervously pondering how I’m going to cope with the repercussions of what some fucking moron somewhere has just done.

I was humbled by that thought - so humbled I could eat humble pie - though only if it was liquidized.

So, the new skill I want to learn is to give up the role of ‘Angry Spectator’, and move into the role of ‘Experienced Challenge Facer’. I want to be able to come face to face with a moron and smile and think, “Yeah, I’ve seen your type before,” and move forward into positive solution without looking back. Because anger is exhausting, but most of all it’s distracting, and being offended by the atrocious behavior of others is a hobby I no longer have the time to have.

There are plenty of things to be furious about in the world right now - I am literally spoiled for choice. Many of these injustices I can do nothing about, but I can do something about my choices. I can remember my own values and be an active participant in the story of what I believe to be fair and right.

‘Experienced Challenge Facer’. I do like the sound of that. It sounds like something that would qualify you for a comic strip or at least a fancy catsuit. And yes, I know it's a big ask. And yes, at times in this era of complete fucking warmongering morons, I'll no doubt struggle. But I know it’s possible, because as Arthur recently proved, even an old-ish dog can learn new tricks.

PS: Every time you click on the wee heart emoji on this post to like it, a wee Neanderthal gets an award. That’s a lie, obviously, but it does wonders for my algorithm, and I am incredibly grateful. xo

P. P. S: If you enjoy talking/listening/stories/ random facts, come and join me and Mr Tweddle this Thursday at Fish and Bear. This Thursday, we will be back at MacLeod’s in the Magical No-Kings-dom of Van Nuys. xo