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It’s almost four and I’m at work, but I find myself wondering why. Well, I can’t settle down to a book to read. Exercise seems senseless. Don’t want to go out to a movie and be in a crowd. We have the kiddo this weekend so it severely limits the movies we could watch anyway. We’ve watched all the television I can stand. It’s nothing against the telly or the books of others, it’s me. I miss my dog.
I’m sitting in my office, and I’m going to try and work, but Sasquatch is the only dog on the bed that Jimmy loved. Pip was never very fond of that bed. We have four dog beds scattered throughout the room. Phouka is now completely blind so the idea was that she’d have plenty of beds to choose from, but honestly, she doesn’t like the new office much. We didn’t know she was going to loose her sight in the middle of the big construction project. She knew every inch of the old office — blind folded. The new one is like a foreign land, and she’s uneasy in it. I end up having to carry her, and put her on one of the beds near some of the other dogs. Once she wanders away, she’s confused, and starts looking for me again. It makes me sad.
It is especially poignant right now with Jimmy having just passed. Phouka is aging faster than she should, even the vet says so. She’s only ten, but she seems much older for a small dog. I doubt seriously that she’ll make the ripe old age that Jimmy did. But then I’m not feeling particularly optimistic right now. You can understand why.
At least the book is about to have a fight scene. A fight scene with lots of violence I can handle today. I am way too sad for a sex scene or something soft and romantic. I don’t want to look for clues, or solve the msytery today. Killing things on paper sounds about the right speed.
Though, I’m still searching for music. I think I was hoping by not blogging about how sick Jimmy was, it would be better. Superstitious, who me? But also, it gets wearing to talk about what’s wrong in your life. I don’t find any comfort in venting like most women seem to. To me, it just makes me feel the emotion all over again. The more I repeat it, the worse I feel. I watch other female friends relax as they talk. Venting means letting go for them. It was Jon who pointed out that I don’t let go of anything so venting doesn’t work for me. How right he is.
So, I’m going to use some of this anger on paper and kill something. If I loose the anger it will just be sorrow, and I don’t know what to do with that. Anger, that I understand.