We're Back. We Moved. Nugget Has Thoughts.

It has been a minute. A busy, chaotic, moving-boxes-and-questionable-decisions kind of minute. We are back. We are in a new place. Nugget has fully taken over the parking lot next door and I am choosing to see that as a win. I also owe you an apology for the gap and a promise to backtrack and fill in on all the entertainment from what was an extremely warm, extremely eventful summer. More on that soon. For now — here's where we are.

This summer was a lot. The businesses got genuinely, wonderfully, exhaustingly busy. I moved again. Life rearranged itself in ways I didn't fully plan for and some ways I definitely didn't plan for at all. Somewhere in the middle of all of it Nugget and I landed in an apartment together and have been figuring out what that looks like ever since.

The short version: we are okay. We are figuring it out. Nugget is thriving entirely on his own terms, which is the only way he has ever operated and I don't know why I keep being surprised by it.

The Parking Lot Yard

Our last place had a yard. This apartment does not. What it does have is a parking lot next door, and Nugget has decided — unilaterally, without consulting me — that the parking lot is the yard now. This is what he has decided and I have learned to work within it.

There is someone whose workplace is across the lot — one of Nugget's favorite people — who comes by on breaks to bring him food. Real food, not treats. Food. Nugget accepts this as correct and has built it into his daily schedule as a non-negotiable. He is fed at home, well and with care, home cooked and served with a fork because that is the standard we operate at. And still — still — the food that arrives from across the lot on a break is also necessary and welcome and not something he would dream of turning down. He contains multitudes. He is not apologizing for any of them.

Now. His person and I are not exactly getting along the best right now. It is what it is, we are both adults, it is being dealt with.

Nugget does not understand this. At all. He has been made aware that sometimes humans need space from each other and that people do not always get along and that this is simply part of life. He has considered this information and rejected it completely. In his view, people who both love him should simply be fine and everyone should just deal with it and move on because he does not have time for this and frankly neither do we and he does not know why we are making it complicated.

He loves who he loves. He collects food where it is offered. He has chosen me — long term, no contest, I am the one he goes home with every night, the one he checks on every fifteen minutes, the one whose chair he sleeps next to — and that is not up for discussion. But he is not going to pretend that extra food and a little attention from across the lot is unwelcome just because the humans involved have things to work out. He finds the whole situation deeply inefficient and would like us both to get it together.

On walks — when I get home or have time — if we end up anywhere near that side of the lot, Nugget tries to go there for more. Not subtly. He simply walks that direction with full intention and positions himself somewhere visible and waits, like he has sent a notice and someone should come outside. I try to redirect. He does not redirect. I can prevent him from doing something but I cannot make him go a different direction when his mind is made up. He is strong and decided and when he has chosen a direction we go in that direction. That is the truth of our physical dynamic and I have made my peace with it.

His person does not love dog hair. Does not love being jumped on. Nugget is aware of both of these things and cares about neither. He jumps. He sheds. He looks at everyone with pure joy and zero apology and I stand there saying I'm so sorry while Nugget communicates through his entire body that he is not sorry and does not see what there is to be sorry about.

The Post-Bathroom Performance

Something has shifted in Nugget's understanding of what happens after he goes to the bathroom. Previously it was a thing that happened and then we went home. Now it is apparently the opening act.

He finishes. He looks at me. He launches — nearly eye level, I want to be accurate about this — grabs the leash, and it is game on. Tug of war. Running. Jumping. Full chaos energy in a public parking lot while I stand there in whatever I threw on, apologizing to strangers with my eyes. He does not find this embarrassing. He finds this ideal. He would like to do it every single time regardless of hour or audience and he cannot understand why I am not equally enthusiastic.

Learning to Walk in Nashville

Nugget loves walks. Long ones. Very long ones. The longer the better and he decides when it is time to turn around, which is always later than I expected and always his call.

What we are currently learning — and I use "we" loosely because this lesson is very specifically for one of us — is that cars do not care about him. Especially at night. Especially in Nashville, where drivers are a category entirely their own that I will address in a full dedicated post because they deserve the space and the word count. I have a working theory that 90% of people who move here are required upon arrival to meet some kind of threshold for worst drivers in the world. It is the only explanation. Half of them don't even have their lights on at night.

Nugget at night is nearly impossible to see. Dark, confident, completely unconcerned about his own visibility. So we are working on finding or building the best reflective harness and leash situation we can — comfortable, actually reflective, something that works for real. More on that soon because it is a whole project and I want to share all of it.

In the meantime we have been working on Stop and Look at every intersection. Stop he has mastered. Look he is working on — currently he pauses and looks at me, which is close enough and we are making progress. When I say Go he walks with purpose, which matters when you are crossing a Nashville street and the car coming has no lights on and no particular interest in slowing down for anyone.

The Skunk. We Need to Talk About the Skunk.

Behind the shopping center, late at night when the lot is quiet — that is Nugget's favorite walk. We have a regular back there now. A skunk. Older, almost entirely white, completely unbothered by anything including an 80-pound dog straining toward it with his whole heart every single night.

Nugget wants to be its friend. Sincerely and completely. He does not understand why I won't allow it. We have had this conversation multiple times at midnight in a parking lot and he listens politely and then immediately looks back at the skunk. The skunk has not changed its route. I remain vigilant. The situation is ongoing.

The Couch. A Renovation in Progress.

We got a couch. Real furniture. Progress. It is used, leather, peeling in a way I fully intend to fix when life allows a moment for a refinishing project. Nugget has decided not to wait and is helping with the peeling daily and enthusiastically. I sweep up leather flakes approximately a dozen times a day. He watches me with the satisfaction of someone contributing meaningfully to the household. He is not wrong that progress is being made. He is wrong about the plan but I haven't found a way to explain that to him that he accepts.