Swiss chard au gratin it was yesterday noon, with a slice of six-grain bread. After errands for myself and others. Followed by a visit from a former colleague – a carpenter by trade – who’ll build a few home improvements for me in exchange for some administrative writing on my part. Plus phone calls, interruptions at the door – a preview of what life will become again, as of next week.
But this week is still time off with no pay. Therefore, I feel free to shut off the phone when I so decide. Not answering the door is trickier: the dog goes nuts. Moving a story forward in the interims? Think Volga boatmen hauling the barge from a rough bit of riverside – boulders, bushes, boggy ground, oops, the rope got caught in a submerged tree trunk. And so on.
More of the same today.
The dog. Wanting to go out and play at three am. She dances around in the living room and clicks her toenails. Fast, slow – long pause – another staccato. Comes the point where I throw off the blankets, curse her name and let her out. Even though we’ve been through the whole going out before bedtime number.
Ah, but the night at three am, n’est-ce pas, dog? The bundles of scents wafting up from a recent visit by the cat, from whatever lingers from a drunkard’s footsteps, from whatever calls from the town below… The dog’s moment of poetry, no doubt. One to which I’m not overly sympathetic. Reader, I admit it. I scowl and bemoan the lost sleep. C’est comme ça.
Ah yes. In a dream prior to the three am Canine Poetry Hour, a dog bit my right forearm. Not in an angry or attacking way. The dog was trying to grab my attention and pull me away from some danger. Didn’t quite gauge the strength of its jaw vs the give in my arm. It was a dream so the effect was mostly one of surprise. (In story land, a few dogs are running wild at the moment. What happens next? What else but: I don’t know. Will have to find out.)