The Dog

I woke up to a huge puddle of piss in the kitchen. We got clear to the back of the yard and I realized the dog didn’t have his collar on. We had to come back for it. I got halfway on our walk and I realized I wasn’t particularly angry or upset about either thing.

I don’t feel like I’m becoming a mellower person, just that the things I want to be angry about are not these small things.

The thing that sucks about your 40s is that people die and when they die, they’re not that much older than you. Like, there goes Pat Summitt. And can you imagine? One of the most brilliant minds in college basketball struck down by Alzheimer’s. Because the universe likes a sick and tragic joke.

Whatever you love, whatever is most fundamental to you, you’re going to lose.it. It’s depressing, but it makes me feel such urgency. Will I get the thing written before I can’t write any more? “The thing” being the work that makes me feel like “Yep, I did it.”

I worried a little that the pee in the kitchen might be the start of kidney problems, but the Butcher tells me that the dog wouldn’t get off the porch last night. I am slightly annoyed that the Butcher didn’t then take him off the porch. But would I have? I can’t say.

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