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.
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