Where are the good days?

I start off the day, right on time. The alarm, however annoying, beeps, and without allowing myself to think about it, I roll out of bed to quickly head over to the door to let the dogs out.

My first coherent thought is of Clue and how he’s faring, but the next is definitely on the big load of dog waste, lying right there, slab-dab in the middle of the main room. For some reason one of the dogs had made a mess during the night, and it takes me a moment to scowl and clean it up, ere I can start the usual morning rituals.

A particularly nasty dream disturbs me from the moment of awakening. Neither the events in it, nor the images that still play through my mind cause me to feel disconcerted, but more the overall imprint it has left. There were people there from the past; people I have no particular use for and who should stay in the past where they belong.

It is most certainly one of those dreams that dim the line between reality and fiction, creating this itch on my back that no one can actually reach for a good scratch.

I try to put the feeling aside, knowing full well that it will serve me no good whatsoever during the course of the day, but for some reason it sticks around, churning in the back of my mind as I set to the tasks ahead.

Exercise day has arrived once again, and after a serious debate with myself, due to the lack of inclination for it, I finally start. The movements are done by rote, rather than smoothly and efficiently, the way I prefer them to be, but in the end I manage the full forty minutes that I tend set aside for this particular routine.

Next comes the day’s laundry, both folding and hanging… it seems to be (and is) a never ending cycle, I fear, but what with the weather still being fine, I don’t really mind.

I keep wary eye on the clock as time goes on and ten more pages of the Ashta-Mahk are improved and altered. The instruction was that we could go to the Vet hospital after five, lest we get a phone call that informs us otherwise. Since no call comes through, by the time five in the afternoon passes, mom, big brother and I head for the car.

The air is chilly, even though the sun shines brightly at the horizon, now that dusk is drawing near. There is a beautiful play of color in the sky though, warranting a few pictures while we’re driving.














Traffic is busy, and on our way to the village we are momentarily detained by some moron company that has decided to cut down a fifty-year-old hedge of cypress trees that used to beautify the way into the build-up area.

I am appalled to see what is being done to our mountain over the past few years when construction sites are being set up all around us. Trees, which are a rare commodity in these parts, are being cut down, steep inclines are leveled by heavy machinery and foundations for new buildings are being laid down before they are left unattended until the economy recovers.

It’s hideous. All around where nature used to bloom, concrete and dirt has taken over. Why on earth anyone would decide on this in these troubling times is still a mystery to me.

But, be that as it may, we head for the village and part in front of the hospital for the update on Clue’s well fare.

The young male veterinarian informs us that though the X-rays and preliminary blood tests didn’t show any remarkable results, he has found a blood disease in Clue’s system that could very well explain all his symptoms.

Erhlichiosis, the young man calls it, explaining that though not curable it is treatable to a point where the bacteria in Clue’s blood become dormant, allowing him a life of relative health, much like Sama, one of your Huskies, who had suffered the same fate just last spring.

Quite relieved, since we had feared that Clue’s fate would be Euthanasia in the end, I listen to the explanation and treatment and come to realize that it is not all that different from Leishmania. Poor Clue will need a few injections, along with a two-week string of antibiotics, and then he should be fine.

Though we want to take him home with us, the vet states that he is not at liberty to release Clue to us without the primary vet signing off on it, so Clue will stay another night, after both big brother and I have spent several minutes with him by his cage.

He looks well enough, and according to the doc he’s eaten well, and hasn’t vomited again. A good sign indeed, and he’s pretty ecstatic when we open the fence and start petting (and crooning at) him.

When the time for our visit is over, we head back out the “recovery” room, promising our return tomorrow when he, hopefully, can return home with us.
I always hate leaving any of our dogs at the hospital, but knowing that they are treated well there I am slightly reassured about the entire process.

Still, my mood is gloomy by the time we get home. Big brother and I linger by the carport for a bit, allowing the repaired moped to run stationary for a bit and reorganizing several heavy pieces of furniture that are keeping the car from being parked properly.

That done we head into the house where my dogs are all, once again, noisily demanding my attention, blocking my passage further into the house. Instead of even trying, I settle on a spare barstool while I wait for them to quiet down as we bring the younger sibs –cooking the night’s dinner– up to date on Clue’s progress.

The smell of the Thai meal they are preparing is delicious, and yet I am unable to enjoy it since it falls heavily on my upset stomach.
I eat only a little, before deciding to rouse big brother into the continuation of the kitchen project, and together we hang the first three drawers that we’ve meticulously put together over the past few months.

It’s a tight fit, in the end needing only one shaving adjustment to the top drawer until all three are fitted perfectly within their allotted slots. The high-tech rollers work wonderfully smooth, and the heavy drawers slide in and out without trouble.
A job well done, I decide, pleased with the result as big brother and I carry the heavy new construction to the spare room in the courtyard where the rest awaits.

While cleaning up the mess we’ve made, putting tools and the likes back where they belong, we discuss our plans once more. Figuring that once we get all the drawers in place and acquire the last few elements we’ll need, we can take down the old kitchen and start putting in the new within the next couple of weeks.

Still talking about the design, I quickly put the first layer of color paint on the last two drawers of the main isle, and use a liberal amount of turpentine to remove the splatters of deep red that have somehow managed to dry on my wrists and hands during the process.

Considerably weary from the day’s efforts, I prepare a quick snack and settle in front of the TV with Disney’s “The Incredibles” playing on the screen. None of us are inclined to really watch, no matter how funny the animated movie is, so in end we shut it off hallway through and decide to call it a night.

I can’t explain what really causes it: But, whenever I am stressed, worried or just plain uncomfortable, my stomach is a disaster. And besides, I can never eat past eleven in the evening, no matter how hungry I am.
I take on step away from the chair when I feel the roasted pita bread come back up and just barely manage to squeeze my way through the dogs that lie in wait in front of the bathroom.

Such a waste, I always think, wondering how many good meals and snacks have made their way down to the septic tank without due process.
Worries. I hate experiencing them that’s a fact and my stomach bears testament of that particular emotion.

Feeling decidedly hollow, the way I always do after a hurried trip to the bathroom, I gather up my computer bag –which feels much to heavy on days such as these– call for my dogs and head up to my cabin for the night.

Imaginative swearing escapes me the moment I step inside and turn on the lights. Somehow, one, or more dogs have managed to sneak inside while I was in the house and have created havoc throughout my bedroom.

One of the old garden-furniture cushions that I put there just a few weeks ago to protect my dogs against the chill of the night, has been shredded to pieces, littering the floor with tiny bits of foam. It creates a movable carpet of the nasty stuff that will most certainly have to be swept up and piled into a garbage bag before I can try to relax some before going to sleep.

Muttering my displeasure as the dogs make the task harder than it should be, I take out the broom and start gathering the mess until there is a semblance of neatness… on the floor at least.

Literally, tired to the bone, I toss the three bags of debris I’ve gathered in the back of the truck, get one of the forty-pound dog kibble bags behind it, and carry it into the cabin to feed my dogs.

In all honesty, I could have done without that last bit of effort, and even as I write this particular day down, my eyes are drooping steadily shut.
So with this I’ll end the day’s recount, wishing for a better day –and state of mind– in the morning.

A visit to the Vet hospital.

I wake around my usual time, hesitating for only moment whether or not I’m going to snooze on for a bit or not, and then decide on the latter when something in the air warns me that it’ll be a busy day ahead, not allowing for laziness on my part. It is a day on which there’ll be little time for “insignificant” things such as sleeping, I think, so I finish my Elfhunter reading while going through the morning’s routine, and head out of my cabin less than an hour after awakening.

My suspicions of ill tidings are confirmed by the time I get to the house and finish hanging and folding the day’s laundry, while big brother lets loose the main pack.
Clue, one of chocolate colored Pointers is barely able to come down the stairs, needing the help of big brother lest he topples over, right there at the top. His hind legs are hardly able to support him, and he has this miserable look in his woeful eyes when we examine him closely.

One has to know that Clue has never been the healthiest dog in our pack of ninety-six. Though his previous grievances were mild compared to what he has now, he has been the source of some concern over the past two years since he joined our pack. Weakness in the limbs, whining pitifully for reasons unexplained and particularly nasty cough when he was but a pup. The list has always been endless.

Clue was about four months old when we got him as a give-away dog with a family who’d found him wandering the streets. He was a tiny little thing for his age, scrawny, too, but too beautiful to leave to his fate. It was his character that worried us, right from the start, however.

Timid and shy are a mild description for the beautiful Pointer. His stature is great, though he tends to lower his head submissively, and his fur gleams and is very soft to the touch, making him a rare sight to behold amidst our large variety of breeds.

We suspect that whoever his owners were, they didn’t treat him well at all.
We’ve got several other Pointers within our lot. The Spanish variety, El Braco Español, which is white and black of color. The Viscla from the northern regions of Europe, bearing a gorgeous orange pelt. And the ghostly gray Wiemeraner branch of the Pointer breed; all of which are very straightforward in their behavior, and even snappy at times. But not Clue, he shies away most of the time, only rarely daring to come towards us without coaxing, for a quick pat on the head, before he dashes away again.

This behavior always saddens me in a dog; seeing how some pet owners, mistreat these beautiful, loyal and loving creatures. Most of the time, when we take on a new dog that has been abandoned, the majority of their acclimation period is spent undoing whatever damage is done. It is not always a successful endeavor, I’m sad to admit. For some dogs their past is just too big a hurdle to overcome, making them set themselves apart from the rest of the pack.

But back to Clue: We are unable to locate any physical damage that might be the cause of his ill health today, which has made him vomit repeatedly while his behind continues to drop to the floor. So, in the end it is decided that as soon as the younger sibs are up and about we’ll take him to the veterinary for a medical check-up.

He’s a darling when we transport him to the vet hospital, lying quietly on the backseat beside me as we head towards the village at a moderate speed– in case he’s actively hurting somewhere. Once there, I’m obliged to lift him out of the back seat while big brother holds the doors open for my passage, crooning soft words to poor Clue, who’s looking wearily at the place that he only remembers from when he was neutered.

Quiet, but thankfully showing no signs of fear, I support his rear first with one arm, and then as the waiting period draws out, I drape him over my knees to help him remain standing until the attending vet finally appears and tells us to follow her to the exam room.

With her faulty English and our miserably lacking Spanish we do in the end manage to convey the problem while she steadily checks out his vitals.
His gums are to white to any of our liking, feeling cold to the touch as well, and after applying the thermometer to our stoic looking Clue she confirms what we’d already suspected: He has a high fever and will need to be medicated for that, as well as the occasional vomiting he has been experiencing during the course of the morning.

If our usual vet had been there, we would have been allowed to stay during the X-Rays, which need to be taken while blood works are being done, but since this new young vet is the only one on call we leave Clue behind in a cage in the back of the hospital and return home.

I feel quite out of sorts when we arrive at home, giving my ecstatic dogs only absent pats as they bounce wildly around me. Mosha, in fact, literally climbs up the length of me in her exuberance, licking my face like mad, before I actually become aware of what she’s doing due to her sharp little nail digging into my chest.

With a quiet chuckle I giver her a good hug and then set her down before I go to the pantry, where Knight II is making a racket.
Due to the Great Dane’s formidable size, I have long since come to the conclusion that for my own safety, as well as that of the other dogs, it is better to lock him up in a separate room when I return from errands such as today.

If he isn’t contained when I get home, he is like an unstoppable wave of solid muscle and bone, coming at me top speed. Though it would be manageable if he were the only pet in the house, what with a good fifty milling about, barking excitedly at the return of the humans, it is simply not doable while he is still so very young.

He’s about 18 months old now, still acting like a pup and totally unaware of his might whenever he gets excited about something. Training him will most certainly be an interesting venture.

After several minutes of Chaos throwing his full weight against my hips, the Labradors vying for attention and the Cockers and Beagle circling and then penetrating the tight group from time to time for their own bit of affection, the lot finally quiets down, allowing me to release Knight’s leash and look around to see what needs to be done.

What with my feeling of disquiet, I know that my mind will drive me bonkers if I sit down and relax now, so instead, I head for the pantry once more –the dogs hot on my heels– and refill the washer before turning it on by tapping the bare carcass that lies on display now that big brother has explored the controls for breaks and such.
Amazingly it start up right on cue, leaving me to carry out the two batches that have been washed since I arrived at the house that morning, and step into the windy dusk for the final hanging of the day.

That done, and still feeling uncomfortable I decide to start on today’s dinner, consistent of Macaroni and spinach, all baked together with spices, sweet and sour chili sauce, half a red bell pepper, and onion and cheese.

However tasteful, I manage to choke down only a little. As usual during stressful times my stomach revolts at even the least bit of food consumed, but I manage to keep it down and move straight on to the front room of the Finca where our large supply of fabrics literally overflow the shelves.

The dratted closet has been a thorn in my eye for months now, and since I want to keep busy above all, little sister and I take out all fabrics –and partially finished projects– for a good sorting. It takes me a good hour to get through the lot; tossing out damaged fabrics and folding the lengths that are worth saving.

By the time I’ve lugged the neat piles back to their appointed shelves, I’m both pleased and weary, since lifting the many pounds, while navigating the dogs and going up and down the three levels that make up the main floor of the house, turn out to be a nice substitute for the exercise I didn’t have today.

While grandpa and I carry two full garbage bags to the pantry for later disposal, I decide to call the vet for an update on the tests that have been done.
A quick conversation with the very nice and experienced assistant who works there –and speaks English very well to boot– I am informed that the tests have shown to be inconclusive for Clue’s symptoms. His X-Rays showed no damage to his spine, and the blood works were fine too. Thus it is decided that he will stay there for the night, so they can monitor him until tomorrow when we can come back.

That done, along with a quick report to the rest of the worried family, I resume with the fabric storage shelves, while trying to give an enthusiastic Knight the attention he’s demanding of me.
He has this annoying habit of grabbing whatever it is I’m carrying, and after chasing him twice I set down the last pile of neatly folded fabrics, to grab him by his collar and command him to sit.

It quiets him down effectively, since he knows that if he follows the command well, he’ll get a proper treat, leaving me free to finish what I started.
Pleased with the neat end result, I decide to sit for a while, having a drink of icy water while smoking a much-desired cigarette. Still I am unable to calm my turmoil thoughts, so after half an hour, of talking and glancing at the TV occasionally, I head for the kitchen to do the evening’s dishes in little sister’s stead.

Little brother has spent the majority of the day working in the corner where the main computer stands. Cleaning surfaces, CDs and instruction books with remarkable diligence, and giving the entire house a nice clean atmosphere.

It always amazes me how we all just sort of settled in a routine of our own: Each and every one of us performing specific tasks that suit us best, creating an end result that works pretty well.

While I mostly focus on laundry, cooking and the less day-to-day tasks such as cleaning out cupboard shelves, walls and general cleaning maintenance, little sister keeps the kitchen bright and shiny on a daily basis and pitches in where she can.
Big brother tends to see to major maintenance, and the patio in which the dogs are free to roam during the night, while he AND little brother take care of the removal of garbage bags and the likes, and carry down the heavy bags of dog food every day.
Younger sister, is mostly responsible for the daily hosing down of the courtyard, and feeds the variety of other pets that honor our house.

For all the other things that need to be done, everyone just pitches in when and where they can, creating a rather well oiled machine where in the end everything gets done… at some point in time. Hah.

The dogs each have their own boss, but since mom and big brother have the most –compared to the younger sibs and I– taking care of them is also pretty much a joined effort.
When trimming needs to be done, it is organized so that it can be handled in shifts of two.
Those, with whom the dog in question tends to reside, give whatever medications are needed, and feeding time is a matter of just keeping a close eye on every pack member until all have had their share.

The dynamics of our particular family might be odd, but it works, which is all that really matters in the end.

As for today… it comes to an end unremarkably.
Trin Trin gets her seventh injection, before I whistle for my pack to follow me out of the house and courtyard and back up the mountain.
My thoughts are with Clue at the hospital, spending the night in a cage, while I feed my dogs their extra share, and spent a few minutes reading a book, and then get ready for my nightly communications on the Net.

Now all that is left for me to do tonight is give four of my dogs their daily medication and turn in for some much required sleep while the wind howls around my cabin, keeping the pesky clouds at bay once more… I hope.

The day with some wandering thoughts.

I awaken feeling remarkably well with just the few hours of sleep under my belt and I take my time going through the morning routine for a change, since no pressing matters are awaiting my attention on this particular day.

As hoped, the wind during the night has chased the clouds away, bringing another sunny day for me to enjoy right here in the midst of November. It is still chilly, what with the wind continuing to blow, but I don’t mind, really. Wind I can handle well enough as long as the clouds and rain stay well away.

I go to the house a little late, feeling up to attacking the boxing bag for a change –the day of rest I took yesterday has allowed my body to reclaim some of the energy it desperately needed– and throw myself into the exercise wholeheartedly. It is a good day for kickboxing, I find, throwing all my efforts into the attack on the unwitting bag that creaks and whines with every swing, punch and kick.

For the next forty minutes the bag bears the brunt steadily until at long last the session is over and I head for the shower before the day’s chill, starts to work into my warmed muscles, setting a base for severe stiffness and soreness. Pleased that today’s routine went so well, I pay little head to the used feel in my limbs and rather than starting up the computer immediately I set out to hang laundry, instead. I actually enjoy it, since the air is fresh and clean, while sunlight falls through the open center of the covered courtyard.

What with washing machine having been on the fritz for the past few days, the dirty sheets and clothes have piled up in the laundry room, warranting a few extra washes –and thus more hanging– until once again the stupid machine refuses to start.
After filling half of the huge amount of lines that take up part of the courtyard, I ask big brother to look at the washer later, while be both sit down for today’s session behind our computers.

For ten pages I immerse myself into the fantasy world of the Ashtah-Mahk, realizing that today would have been better spent with physical activities rather mental ones. By the time dusk starts to fall I am feeling a certain sense of disquiet fall over me, and shut down my computer in favor of making today’s dinner, if for no other reason than to keep busy.

After a quick foray into the recently refilled cabinets I decide on Pizza pancakes for all, and, with little sister’s aide, start chopping vegetables and the likes to add to the batter and herbs that soon fill the house with a most delightful scent.

The thing I like about pizza pancakes is that they are easy to prepare and leave very little to clean up afterwards. Two skillets, some leftover veggies to dispose of and that’s it.
It’s as easy as throwing all components in a bowl, mixing it up and throwing patties into the heated skillet until there’s enough for all.

It is also a filling meal, one pancake each and hungry stomachs have had all they need for the rest of the day, leaving everyone content and stuffed.
I dawdle a bit after cleaning up and doing the dishes by lounging in front of a boring movie playing on TV, and then chase big brother and mom away from the table so I can paint the last drawers of the new kitchen.

With two of the recently constructed drawers receiving their third and final layer of deep-red paint, and two are covered with a gray –now pink, because I hate to waste to rollers on one painting sprint- the new kitchen is coming close enough for me to feel the exciting sense of anticipation. I can hardly wait for the REAL project of replacing the old with the new, starts.

The painting done, I clean up the mess I’ve made, spray my hands and arms liberally with turpentine and soap, while talking with big brother -who is diverting his time between working on the washer and two episodes of recorded “Prison Break” playing on TV- about our plans for the kitchen, before the night begins to draw to an end.

A final half hour of “Frasier” and his insane mental state is the last bit of entertainment in the main house, and with the three younger sibs preparing themselves a late snack, I gather my dogs and follow them up the mountain.

The wind is blowing full force again, tumbling down from the north, the way it usually does this time of year, making Goosebumps break out on my skin well before I reach my cabin, which bears the same temperature as the outside with a medium of 10 degrees Celsius.

Hurrying through feeding my pack, and changing into my pjs, which I rapidly cover up with a warm woolen vest that reaches well past my knees, I enjoy a quick read before settling on the bed, wrapped in blankets until I resemble a pile of colorful fabrics thrown together.

For most of the day I’ve been thinking off and on about the Amazon discussion forum where a dare was made for those who could write down the grossest thing they could remember, and I finally decide on a particular event that occurred when I was a preteen and our dogs got into the chicken run.

I actually have to smile when I think about how I’m fussing about such matters, when it really is just about having fun with a warm group of people that come together on-line. It is just such a pleasure, participating in the “Kill The Thread” that I’ve almost forgotten that it all started as a contest for a free book.

It is one of the things I like about the Internet, in particular if I forget about the annoying ads, spread all around, the porn and God knows what else defiling a rather wonderful way to communicate with people all over the world.

I’m still relatively new to the Net, really. I think it has been only three years or so since I actively began to participate in the variety of communities that are spread out all over the place.

Which brings me to spamming. I don’t get it. Everyone knows that EVERYONE hates it, and yet those ads, commercials, scams and whatnot keep coming, no matter what.
Why ruin such a marvelous place with file pictures and silly money offers? What is the fun of it? All over the place more and more security measures are taken, making the entire experience a lot less pleasant for those like myself who just want have some light conversation with interesting people.

It’s a shame really, how everything at some point always corrupts. It makes me wonder if it is human nature: To corrupt and destroy the world in which we live?
A scary thought, really, in particular when that same drive to destruct seems to percolate into every little niche of our reality.

Politics, media, Hollywood, and everything in-between: It’s there. The potential of actual destruction of all we hold dear. All appears to come down to a simple equation, quality over quantity.

Products need to be there in enormous amounts for as little money as possible, resulting in affordable machines that “die” well before they should. Cheap clothes that are stitched with thread that breaks when you blow on it. Shoes that fall apart after just a few months right around our feet: It’s easy, but also a terrible waste.

Where are the objects of the past that could be passed down from generation to generation? Yes, we have everything our greedy little hearts want for reasonable prices, but for how long?

Growth (=quantity) is promoted constantly; while the experts claim that without it economies cannot thrive, but realistically how far can something… anything grow before tumbling down to where it started. It is like the saying, “what goes up, must come down”. It is a basic truth that can perhaps be shoved further ahead –for a while at least– but it will never go away, no matter how far advanced technologies take us.

The most disturbing part is that this quantity VS quality issue is such a big part of daily life.
The biggest example being, that life should be prolonged and treasured, whether that life if generally wonderful or generally miserable. No distinctions are made, no debate welcomed since this is something that no one can really touch… if one even wished to do so in the first place… without calling forth a barrage of disagreements from every corner.

Personally, I rather look at the quality of something. An action taken, something created that will last a lifetime, if not longer. Quality makes one treasure something, nourish it and most importantly enjoy it to the fullest extent.

Without quality the quantity is just an endless game of catching up.

Well, this certainly concludes my thoughts for the day. Time to call it a night and turn in, the new day will be here far too soon.

Remodeling and stuff.

Today the weather is clouded and chilly again, never a good thing to see when I first open my eyes and look out the windows and door, positioned at the foot-end of the bed. No! I don’t want to wake up yet, I immediately realize this and reach out for the alarm to reset it for another half hour ere taking Trin Trin in a headlock and dozing off once more with the monster boxer prudently held in a tight embrace.

There was a dream; less vivid than the ones I’ve described on a couple of occasions but still present enough to linger throughout the day. I remember being in some sort of facility, perhaps a compound, I’m not sure, but the colors were vibrant, ranging to all that nature holds in plants, blooming lushly in bright reds, purples and yellow flowers that were both domestic and foreign.

I was searching for something, my mind awhirl because I could not find it, no matter how hard I searched, or where I went. Added to that particular frustration I had to be dreadfully careful in the dream, since wherever I went I had to be cautious of snakes.

I hate snakes. Everything about them disgusts me for some reason, and that is even before I take in consideration that they’re dangerous creatures.

They were everywhere, in the dream. Their colors ranging to all of the plant-life in the place where I searched, along with some blond haired woman that I knew in the dream, but don’t in real life. They slithered around my feet, hid within colorful bushels of flowers, and would jump at me when I least expected them to.

However, even though they were far from hospitable, none actually bit me in the dream. It is the one thing I really like about such events in the subconscious mind, agility and speed that goes beyond human. In dreams I can fly, run endlessly without ever loosing my breath, and lift cars with hardly any effort at all. It’s good to be superman every once in a while, hah.

But, back to the dream: There were more people in there, men dressed in some sort of forest ranger uniforms, while they walked around carefully, searching for the snakes that had somehow escaped their prisons inside the facility… or at least that’s how I interpreted it.

Somewhere along the way I found a young Golden Retriever being cornered by several –what I think were– Cobras, and I snatched it from the ground before running off at top speed, towards a lush forested mountain top nearby with the blond woman coming in my pursuit.

Now this is not the type of dream that makes me wonder upon waking, if it is reality or fantasy. I know it full well the moment I open my eyes and get out of bed to let the dogs out. However, such dreams do make me jumpy… since I know from experience that snakes can sneak into our house at any given time, posing a serious threat for our beloved canines, and in some cases even us. It has happened before, and will undoubtedly happen again, so I am not in the best of moods as I hurry through the morning rituals and head for the house.

Dry laundry needs to be folded and a quick survey of the unresponsive washing machine shows that repairs will be futile since it is one of those new things, where there’s really nothing you CAN repair if the need arrives, because it is all automated.
It appears that the ON button is damaged somehow, meaning that there is something amiss with the circuit board, something that I cannot possibly do anything about.
Still, after some prodding I get the machine working, wondering how long it will run now that the ON button is so obviously broken.

I am most surprised to find out that I actually have an appetite this morning and consume a few slices of fresh bread with toppings when grandpa and big brother start hauling in the final batch of the groceries that were put by the gate ‘till morning.
Twenty bags of forty pound bags of dog food, will need to be hauled down to the car port at some time in the near future, but groceries, such as bottles, cans and the likes get carried inside for placement in the supply cabinet.

While putting everything in its rightful place, I take some extra time to reorganize shelves, and decide to skip today’s exercise, if for no other reason than that I’m still sore from the wheelbarrow and cement mixing stint, and feel too weary.

I manage to edit a good solid ten pages of the Chronicles throughout the next couple of hours, until dusk falls and it’s time to go to the village where we need to get two pieces of glass to replace broken shelves within the DVD cabinet, several lengths of wood for our future kitchen, and gas for the heaters.

While we’re exchanging seven empty tanks for the same amount of new ones, I congratulate myself with not doing my exercises that morning, because the darn tanks weigh quite a bit an do an excellent job of replacing lifting some weights.

Next comes the wood –or MDF in this case– since real wood doesn’t work well while building a kitchen, and after the wood seller has cut the two large, bed-sized boards into manageable strips, big brother and I carry them to the truck and tie the whole load up for transportation.

Once home, and after consuming the meal little sister has made for the day, I set to work without pause, knowing full well that if I don’t start right now, I won’t be able to drag my butt off the chair for the rest of the evening.

Measuring and sawing ensues. Since I’m doing the majority of the work in the living room, I try to use machines as little as possible, lest everything will be covered by sawdust. So, for the next four hours I’m sawing board after board, cutting a good six yards until my arm feels as if it’s going to fall off and big brother takes over.

Once all the measurements and cuts have been made, the time for putting together the last two drawers for the new kitchen is finally there. Drilling holes, screwing in screws and spurting some glue between sides and bottom, two more drawers make up the required nine of what is going to be a wonderfully huge kitchen island.

Up until now our kitchen functioned well enough, and is a joy to work in with the double sink area that stretches over half the wall, while an L shaped counter, curves outwards to allow for cooking and the likes. Ten years of intense use has taken its toll on cupboards and appliances alike, though, warranting a new kitchen for the entire family.

By now, after several weeks of preparation, and a necessary delay due to a lack of funds, it will be a joy when we finally start tearing the old counters down, and begin to put the new construction in. I can hardly wait until it’s time to place and connect the new five pan holding stove with the gigantic oven underneath. I’m thinking I’ll try out a new oven dish, or maybe homemade pizzas just for the momentous occasion.

Around midnight we’re finally done with the drawers and clean up the mess we’ve made, before exclaiming a sigh of relief and dropping down for half an hour of “Frasier” before I call it a night.
What with my arms aching, and my legs and heels feeling as if shards of glass are sticking in it, I pat myself on the back for my brilliant decision of not doing my exercises this morning, since that would have definitely been too much for today.

With Trin Trin’s sixth or seventh injection given, and her treatment drawing to a close, I gather up my dogs and head up to my cabin for a few more hours of relaxation on the Net before I call it a night.

It is a chilly and dark night when I make my way up the mountain, battling the northern wind that falls down right on top of the property and hope that it will chase the clouds away during the night.

The dogs, like myself no great fans of the cold, rush into the cabin the moment I open the door, tearing through the place as if they want to make sure that no intruders have trespassed on their territory.
None have, of course. The fences are high and the gate is locked with beside it, settled comfortably in his bungalow, grandpa resides with his trusted pitchfork nearby. Hah.

After I feed my pack, with them all devouring the dry kibble as if they’re starved, I brush my teeth and read another two chapters of the book I’ve been making my way through (at an embarrassingly slow pace, I’ll admit) for the last week or two.

Bommel growls threateningly from his favorite corner while he eats, keeping a wary –partially blind– eye on Knight II, who enjoys nothing more than stealing the old Bobtail’s meal from under his nose.

Chaos, the Basset Hound lazily cruises through the rooms, picking up spills like a proper vacuum cleaner, while occasionally raising his head and wagging his tail at me in full appreciation of the kibble that he enjoys so much.

All in all, it is an average evening for when I retire to my cabin and prepare for the next day by planning what needs to be done.

Though plans have a tendency of changing, I do like to have some sort of map to follow during the course of any given day, and with that in mind I sum up the possible tasks that I can take upon myself by the time a new day arrives, before turning in at long last.

Seize the day… or at least parts of it. Hah.