I have been avoiding writing anything on my blog for a few reasons. One of them is that I’ve been sick. Sick like a dog. Like a lazy dog. All I do is sleep. It’s the flu. Is it? Is it depression? Probably. It’s both. It sucks. There is no dog here. And that’s okay. It is? Well, I guess.
Ruffles was here and then she was gone. She’s back at the rescue. Michael was allergic. I suppose I was too, but he was really allergic. He also has asthma, worse than mine even. And as much as we have been trying to accommodate these dogs with a dogrun with a door that leads out to the run (and a little fake grass mat to piss on), it just doesn’t replace a big fenced yard. These dogs need freedom. A place to roam. A place to play. Open terrain. A dog park is nice, but only taking them twice a week isn’t very much. Maybe there are some people who keep dogs in apartments, and maybe they are cool with that, but I have not lived with a dog who didn’t have a lot of freedom. I feel like it’s cruel. I can’t handle it. It’s best we don’t have a little dog out here in the wilderness. They are too vulnerable. With the coyotes here, one needs a big dog. Michael isn’t keen on big dogs and I understand. He’d probably be even more allergic to them.
So that’s the not good dog news.
Now, I suppose I have my life back, but I have to get over being sick. Tomorrow I have to get a CT scan on my throat to see what the hell is going on. It’s probably nothing. It’s just a pain in the ass. It’s been hard to swallow, even breathe. Maybe I’ll get some answers.
In other news, I’ve finally been setting up my oil painting space. You’d think I would have got going on that a long time ago, but I’ve been in dog-crazy land. It’s half-way there, I just have to get the easel up. All the supplies are on the cart and organized. Just waiting for a couple things from the art store and now I have to clean the hell out of the easel that’s been in the garage. It’s dusty as shit.
I’ve been working on those short stories though–decided to compile a book of the stories instead of going for the whole Queer as Mud novel. Instead, I’ll break it up into different stories and throw it into the collection of 15 or so. I’ll add some prose, a few poems, illustrations, and viola: a new book sometime this year, title unknown.
Okay, back to bed.