Cowboy’s coming to get Angus today so he doesn’t hurt Jessie. For now, he’s stinking up my office with Eau du Chien Humide.

It’s so wet out that the puddles in the parking lot have white caps. The contractor decided to make it an office day, and they’re all moving filing cabinets and desks from the office next to mine to down the hall in their main room. I wandered down to see how it was going, after putting Angus on a stay in my office. They all thought it was very funny when I hollered down the hall, “You better get back in your office!” None of them actually moved, but they’ve all thought I was talking to them at some point or another today. Not like I would tell any of them to go lay down.

Angus just can’t control himself—Jessie must really smell like she’s still in heat. I let her out of the laundry room to go potty last night, and he got to her. I got him off before they tied up, but it can’t be good for her. This dog juggling is a little tricky. It’s not like when she has puppies—then she’ll tell him to get the hell out of her face, and he will.

It’s even less fun in a storm, which is why Angus is in my office rather than his usual place in the back of the truck. He got the backyard for lunch while she was locked up in the laundry room. Then I played musical dogs in the rain to get them situated. We’ll be OK after Cowboy comes to my rescue.

For someone who rarely needs rescuing, I sure have needed it an unusual amount this week. Besides the dog thing, which really isn’t that big of a deal, I had to run to my Dad for help. I was working on my taxes, which I’ve done competently for years, and I think I ran into a bug in the program.

I called Dad, who’s volunteering for the IRS to help do taxes for little old ladies who bring him brownies. He’s got an IRS computer and can e-file for free and everything. He couldn’t figure out what was wrong over the phone, so I’m going to go up there on the weekend that Cowboy will be in Oklahoma, and we’re just going to start from scratch with his program. I shall bring him wine; he doesn’t like brownies anyway.

I haven’t had to run to my Dad for years, except for minor investment advice. I’ve always been a little jealous that he’s pretty quick to go fix things around my sister’s house. I should take it as a compliment that he assumes that I know how to fix things. I don’t suppose that I’ve ever asked him to fix anything though. He’d laugh—this is the man who taught me how to run a chainsaw and gives me pointers on splitting firewood. I always said that I was my Father’s son. I guess I’ll take that over a patio roof.

He can’t possibly be surprised that I need help with my taxes though. I’m sure to him, the surprise is that I’ve done it on my own for so long. He seems to have finally accepted that I’m not the math genius that he is. It took a lot of fighting in high school, when I didn’t understand and he couldn’t talk down enough to explain it to me, to get him to grasp that.

Dad, I’m inept at math. Sorry. I make the computer do it all for me. I have to check my nine-year-old’s homework with a calculator. I think I’ve got enough successes in my life to make up for that.