Who the fuck needs a thyroid anyhow?

Boss has explained to me that the reason I've been feeling so punk these days has to do with something more or less between my chin and neck, called a thyroid. I thought thyroids were something dogs didn't have to mess around with, what with all the work to do. He also says that a course of antibiotics will take care of the problem that seems to radiate from mid spine, lumbar stuff.

If this is what it takes, let's get on with it; he has that troublesome novel and, so far as I can see, two short nonfiction projects which seem to give him some pleasure. I have definitely not cast my lot with a rancher, some sensible individual who has sheep or goats or, ah, me, cows to herd; by any account a sensible person. But I suppose it makes sense that I should cast my lot with someone who is interested in telling stories and writing books about such arcana as American Literature and, are you ready for this, a rock, which is what obsidian is. I say it makes sense in that kind of tortured irony by which something other than herding sheep or goats or cows or even horses makes sense.

Well, bring it on, I say. Boss tells me, assures me it will bring me back to my younger days so far as agility and energy are concerned. He has some strange looking pictures that purport to be of my insides, and some dumb blood panel sort of thing that he had to get done when he was recovering. I could tell he was all right when he decided to get out of that dumb hospital. I could have told him that I have the equipment to get him back to work again and into his projects.

For his part, he has promised me there will be no sharing rooms with those farting Golden Retrievers when I last had to stay away from him.

It will be good to see him back on his game, even if it is only herding words. A dog has to make do, you understand, and you must realize that it is one thing for me to think it impractical that he chooses to herd words, but I'd better not hear any comments from you guys.

Understand?

Okay. I'm set for some dumb ultrasound thing Monday, that would be the 30th of August, and whatever it is they do to dogs to get them rid of their thyroid which they didn't have much use for in the first place on the 31st.

Then he'd better watch out; we have work to make up.

Arthritis Still Sucks, but not as Bad

Wasn't as bad today. Boss took us on chores--all work related, I might add--then we repaired to The Coffee Bean to meet with his most illustrious client, Brian Fagan. The afternoon proved a disaster with computer-related nonsense. But the evening was save when Boss provided barbecued pork ribs at a splendid outdoor venue, followed by a trip to Greenwell Avenue, one of my favorite places for diversity and intensity of scents.

Was growing miffed with arthritis. It gets in the way of the work that needs to be done. Boss needs to be herded. A dog has her work cut out for her.

Announcement

Screw arthritis.

Yours truly,

Sally

On Being in over One's Head

Old age sucks.

Mostly the elderly sit about sipping tea and complaining.

This is the part that sucks. I am neither ready for tea nor complaint.

Fuck arthritis. That is not a complaint; that is merely an observation. That and anything that gets in my way.

There are any number of things to be done, such as guarding an enormous tibia bone from a lamb or sheep, resting now on the front porch. Getting the Boss fired up to the point where he is in over his head, a place from which, in my observation, he functions at his best.

Of course a herd dog must be in over her head. That is in her genome.

I'll sleep on it.

When Boss starts preparing for a class he seems to be all over his work area, his room, even the kitchen, looking for things.

People things. Books. Pads of paper. Magazines. Journals. Not a damned piece of duck or chicken jerky in the lot.

When he scratches his ear, I get the sense he is starting to hone in on things. It would be so much easier for him if he had a better sense of smell. But he makes the best of it. The pile of materials grows at his feet. I think, he will tell me, we're closing in on it.

Then he says, okay, here it is, and be begins scribbling notes, going so fast he sometimes has difficulty deciphering them when he gets to the typing-on-the-computer stage. I can see the shift in energy as he settles in, sometimes smacking himself on the forehead, his way of remonstrating himself the way he sometimes remonstrates with me about barking at the Cudahy place, Why hadn't I seen that before? he will go. Then he seems to grow larger, swelling with the enthusiasm of it, and soon thereafter, he is singing in the shower, then rifling through closets to find something to wear, which is silly because, as I try to explain, if he had just one suit, he would have no problems. You don't see me looking for things to wear. My suit is perfect for any occasion.

By the time we get to class, I'm ready for a nap. It helps that I've already heard the material as he shuffles it around and plays with it. Some of my best naps are in the classrooms he takes me to. Graduate-level naps are far and away the best, but writers' conference naps are not to be dismissed lightly.

WTF

Spent most of the morning guarding the front porch.

As a consequence, Boss has been able to get some work in on what we have begun to think of as The Book.

Time for Bosses everywhere to be up.

Up, Boss, up.

Order

During this long, languorous Summer, I have caught up with the past episodes of House.

Pausing to reflect on the nature of all but a few human individuals, I focused on the Senate Hearings relative to confirmation of S. (not the S. ENK refers to!) and have in a brief moment or two my assessment of people confirmed. In particular, Senators S. and T. are roaring examples of self-serving idiocy.

Tried one episode of Bones, but that was a no go. Dumb de dumb dumb.

No more TV for a while.

I must restore order to the chaos.