Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls.
— James Joyce, Ulysses
Related by blood both to Angus and Peat, Bloom, finally, like the spring, has arrived.
It’s amazing our capacity for forgetting. The sudden shift of frame a puppy brings: Peat’s now the mature, even stately, one. I expected the butt-hurt, but not so much the kindness. He wants to, but isn’t sure he should, dote on Bloom. He’s on his way. But just the day before we got Bloom, Peat, age six, snagged and ate an entire extra-large Meat Lovers pizza.
Sioux is Peat’s father, and also Merci’s father, and Merci is Bloom’s mom. Custer, Angus’s nephew, is Bloom’s dad. Bloom is calmer by several furlongs than Peat was, and that I still remember. Leslie is doing her damnedest to be Bloom’s mother, and I’m trying to take a back seat. It’s wonderful to glimpse in Bloom the distant memory of Angus. He has that steady, rocking gait, already discernible in the rotund germ of his body. We weren’t sure it was such a good idea to be getting a puppy right now, but he’s been a welcome distraction from the horror of packing for a major move. Small packages. Goodness.