Well, it was like 9 am.  Sue me, it’s the weekend.

Rum always knows when we go to the dog park and how we get there, so he always leads the way.  On top of that, I think he’s figured out that we always stop at one particular Starbucks on the way.  Cut to the chase, we got our morning food going on and got to the park, where Rum got to socialize with 20 or so other dogs, from rat-size to ginormous.  He had a good time, and every five minutes or so would come sprinting back to us to make sure we were still there.  Until Jeff wasn’t.

Jeff had his morning scone from SB’s in his pocket and a giant Husky/Shepherd cross name Hunter or Dakota or Britney or something kept rubbing his head against Jeff’s sweater, playing for a nom.  Every human who walks into the park gets the once over by the dogs in case of treats, and so Jeff now had a fan who wouldn’t leave him alone.  To resolve, Jeff buggered off outside of the fence to eat his scone without 90 lbs. of giant dog climbing up his nose saying “COOKIE!”

So when Rum came tearing up to me after sprinting around with the pack for a few minutes and didn’t find Jeff there, he went absolutely snakey.

Rumble loves me; we play, I feed him, give him scritches and treats and everything he needs.  Jeff is Rumble’s Alpha, though – Jeff takes him to work every day, walks him all the time, and is in the long and short of it the centre of Rumble’s universe.  So when Jeff disappeared, Rumble freaked out and ran to the gate, howling like mad.  Even when Jeff called and caught his attention and Rum saw him, he was still bananas because Jeff was outside the fence.  Meanwhile, I’m right next to him, petting him and trying to calm him down, feeling like a dick because Rumble couldn’t give a damn. Rumble was all “Dad’s outside the fence and Dad’s not here and I’m all alone, oh this guy lives with me and picks up my shit and feeds me but the Good One is outside and come back, Good One!”

I’m not bitter at all.

The drama ended quickly; Jeff scarfed his scone and came back through the gate and Rumble was happy again.  His goldfish-level memory kicked in and he wandered off – within a few minutes he was perched on top of a confused black lab, humping like mad and grinning from ear to ear with all four feet off the ground.

We left shortly after, and when we got home, Jeff took Rum and stuck him in the bathtub to get the collective drool, dirt and dust of twenty dogs out of his fur.  Rum was not impressed by this.  Neither was Jeff.

I was impressed though, sitting on the couch, watching television and not being Rumble’s Alpha covered in doggy bathwater.

Rum's the kind of dog who gets pissy if you're taller than he is.

There are bizarre buskers, “posers” and other performers out here, some are truly amazing and talented.  That being said, there are… ahem… others.

The Olympic Monkey and Paralympic Fish

Finally, there were a couple of dribbled-in goals and everyone went home.  The Swiss played like they needed to go to hockey-camp this summer, and the Americans were not the same team that wiped the ice with us on Sunday, that’s for sure.

Right there? Jeff & $20 worth of Olympic food.

There’s other, more topical buskers, like the guys in the photo below – though I don’t know if they qualify as buskers because they don’t have any talent save for the ability to wear spandex so tight you can tell their religion.  The little boy in the picture doesn’t seem too keen on the idea, either.  “Guys, you couldn’t have worn underwear?  Really?”

This isn't protesting the Olympics so much as stupid shit-disturbing.

The opening ceremonies last night were phenomenally well done and frankly seemed to be the best ones ever produced, which makes this all the more infuriating.  There are some valid points that Olympic protesters are putting forth – when they’re genuine Olympic protesters.  Many of them – distinguishable by the black hoodies and masks they wear to hide their identities – are just anarchists, enjoying the attention of the global media and participating in the destruction of public and private property.

Jeff was watching the news this morning and there were shots of cars being vandalised on Robson, newspaper boxes thrown around – this is not the work of sincere social protest.  Some random people seemed to get in on the action because it was an opportunity to get away with vandalism – At one point Jeff saw some young mom pushing her child in a stroller, who stopped to kick over a newspaper box.

Seriously, what the hell?

The windows were repaired in a few hours and the police are investigating.

If anything, this kind of crap hurts the causes of the earnest political protesters, and I’m sure they’re frustrated as hell that this is the message that gets attention, and detracts from their credibility.  I know it’s unlikely, but I sincerely hope that the idiots responsible get caught trying to pull something else and have the book thrown at them.

I can’t say how much it suits a Vancouver-based Olympics that a) the torch looks like a giant joint, and b) they’re posing in front of a head-shop.

I loves me some irony.

Wayne Gretzsky's dad is somewhere in this picture. Dressed in white and holding a giant flaming torch, he might be easy to miss.

Wayne Gretzsky’s dad, whose first name continually escapes me no matter how many times you might remind me, ran the torch for the leg down Granville.  Well, he didn’t run, so much as stroll.  He didn’t even try to jog, trot or stride.  I was kind of let down – where’s the drama, the sense of urgency that’s supposed to be there?  What if the torch is late because Gretzsky senior can’t manage a fast-paced strut for six blocks?  I know the guy’s in his sixties, but if you’re gonna get the opportunity to carry the Olympic torch because your claim to fame is that your kid is good at hockey, at least hop on the treadmill and work on your cardio a little bit.