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Busy day. Jimmy, our sixteen-year-old dog, had to be put under so he could have four teeth taken out. Always nerve racking when an older dog goes in for any kind of surgery procedure. But he’s fine. A little disoriented, a little wobbly, but doing okay. I’m trying very hard to be the dog in this situation. By that I mean not thinking about next time, or that he’s the oldest dog I’ve ever owned. Humans worry too much. Dogs don’t. The other three dogs were just happy to see him back and sniffed him all over to find out what his adventures had been. I’m going to be in the moment and be happy he’s home, and enjoy his bemused presence on the couch. By tomorrow he’ll be back to his cheerfully cranky self.
Have the remains of the plot up on the wall. I know what has to happen now, but not the precise order. Everything but the last little bit is clear, sort of. Choices remain for the characters to make, and that will effect which sticky notes stay and which get trashed. I’m going to go over and pet Jimmy one more time before bedtime.