Tuesday, November 10, 2015

Rainy Tuesday

Is there anything in life better than a rainy Tuesday morning? The dogs roll at the foot of the bed. The cats have disappeared to cuddle a heater. I have baseboard heat at this home, and the cats tend to congregate in the bathroom, where the combination of heat and tile seduces.

I have a roof over my head this morning. I have heat in my apartment, and running water. I have hot water to bathe with. I have 2 dogs and 2 cats who love me. I live in an ethnically diverse neighborhood, and I love it. The man I love, loves me.

I have concluded that, at this stage of my life, I need very little except love.

Sunday, November 8, 2015

Whisper of Fields: Every Day But Sunday

Whisper of Fields: Every Day But Sunday: The dogs wait on me to walk them. I have extended their hours of torture, time inside, to adjust to the time change. I did it over the cours...

Every Day But Sunday

The dogs wait on me to walk them. I have extended their hours of torture, time inside, to adjust to the time change. I did it over the course of a month, so the little darlings don't suffer too much. The cats tell me that they are unnerved in long howls from the bathroom at night. I keep the heater on in there, and they console themselves by sitting near it and singing me the long, hot yowl that all unfortunate cat companions know. The, " 'I am lost and lonely and need my pillows fluffed...' " dialogue that all felines engage in at 3 in the morning.

The sun burns off the clouds left over from the misty day, yesterday. I can always tell the weather by Max, the dog. He will not walk in the rain. But yesterday, there was a small break in the cool mist and he got hold of his harness, and down the road he went. I needed the walk.

The trees are losing their leaves, all orange and gold and yellow, and this year, red. They make a shuffling sound as we walk, and Max's nose plows through them, like an arctic ship breaking the ice.  Katie, bred as a companion dog to Chinese concubines, lowers her tiny nose to the ground and follows his lead...

The coffee is fine this morning. Katie, the black foster pug, is a year old, and has never seen a fall before. Max is training her to be a hunting dog. She would be good at agility trials, but this morning she cuddles up to my leg. She is a year old, and her black fur is sleek as silk. She is warm, and smells, faintly, of puppy breath.

Max is my service dog. We are bonded, and he knows how to make me take him for a walk. He knows how to ground me. He is not perfect on the leash. When we go out, he understands that he is "off leash" and it's playtime. He is entirely predictable. He is a good service dog. By breed, he is a mix of farm dog (Corgi) and hunter (Beagle). Max is steady and slow in the harness. Katie is a butterfly on the leash and only my hand on the lime green loop of the handle keeps her on the ground.

Friday, November 6, 2015

Some More Stars

I have moved. Not far, just across the hall to the sunny apartment. It faces south east, and the light comes in like one of Vermeer's paintings. The old, scarred wood floors are scattered with piles of things...clothes, cat beds, and pillows. A random chair faces the wall. The dogs are asleep on the bed. One at the foot, Max, and one on the pillow next to my head. Her name is Katie, and she is a black pug foster, up for adoption.

The unicorn meat eating cats slowly wind from room to room, to find and settle into the sunny spots. They love the new dog bed: memory foam with a bumper all around. The dogs will sit on it, but the cats sleep on it. My possessions are scattered everywhere.

I became badly depressed this year. The death of Barry "Wayne" Reed, the kindly Stepfather, hit me hard. I took him into my home for hospice care, after his house burned down, and then he was diagnosed with cancer. That was January. During his care, I contracted pneumonia with MRSA. That was March, and physically, I am recovering slowly.

The dogs walk me in the sunshine every day, and the cats curl up to me at night. I eat well and often. Some days I wake exhausted, sometimes not.

The man who loves me, still loves me.