Burying Almond Croissants

Boss is trying to juggle too many things at once.
The immediate effect of this is a diminution of tummy rubs.
It is one thing for him to become fantastically involved in a project, such as the book he's been working on, where he goes all abstracted and lost in what he calls nuances, pausing from time to time to try out a line or paragraph on me. And pause, he does, asking me for my reaction. But this is different.
I am working to get at the heart of it.

It is not easy. Things with dogs and people tend toward greater fucking complexity as age visits them. Dogs are famously said to be living in the now and if not living in the now, napping contentedly until the next now arrives, say Boss wanting a walk or a coffee or one of those impulsive trips to Chaucer's Books in the Loreto Plaza (which also has a Gelson's Market, which often reminds Boss to go hunting therein for my favorite snacks of duck, beef, and chicken jerky). I'll give Boss this, when he is not in the now, he is in the What If, the place he projects himself to write things. The things we have in common start, of course, with our bond; we are a pack and there is that pack interconnectedness that transcends our individuality to the place where we each through our pack-ness understand the individuality of the other. With the visitations of age and experience, lines are often blurred. I, for instance, have a wired-in instinct to bury things. Boss frequently gives me pieces of almond croissant to bury. Sometimes, looking for a place to bury the piece of croissant, I think to eat it instead, which is a bafflement to me and to Boss. Sometimes, when hanging out and Boss is swirling the dregs of his coffee, we silently marvel together at the complexity of things.

I think Boss is working on some new complexity. I am working to get at the heart of it so that I can help him decide where to dig.