Yawn...
Two p.m. and I am just waking up-I have been up since 6:00 a.m. but in a fog. I realized the morning cup of Java hadn't worked its magic so now it is. Tuesday morning Honey was dispirited, tail down, wouldn't eat ( first time ever) and seemed to move with effort. As she had spent the previous night barking constantly at something in the wet pasture, I first thought she was paying for being a night owl and watched to see if after many naps she would perk up. Early evening still no food in her and I was worried and it was too late to go to the vet. So I gathered the dogs on the bed and we snuggled- she didn't even try to eat my hand as she usually does after a few pats. Came the dawn and she was a new dog. What a relief. Every scenario in the book from West Nile, to poison, to snake bite, to colic, ran through my head. The little scamp is in my heart.
Last night was not a good dog snuggling night. At 2:00 a.m. it was 80 degrees outside breezy and smoky. One of Wyoming's great virtues is after a 96 degree day you can count on a 60 degree night most times. So I turned on the swamp cooler and it worked all night to produce the coolness that allows sleep unless sharing a bed with two dogs who are monitoring closely who is getting petted and complaining if disparities are evident. Honey chews my hand and Buster licks my ears if things are out of balance. He just gets overcome with affection in the morning and wakes me with little kisses on my ears- can you blame him? No wonder I am tired.
I read another E. Annie Proulx story in another New Yorker. "Those Old Cowboy Songs." Her stories break my heart and this one kind of reminded me of my friend Rasty who had a hard time coming up with Irish immigrant ancestors too. Terrible things did happen to people in early Wyoming. Proulx, though not profane, walks the line between Realism and Naturalism. I had a college professor who explained that difference: "Realism is where you call a spade a spade. Naturalism is where you call it a fucking shovel." Her stories also put me in mind of Marianne Moore's definition of modern poetry: "Imaginary gardens with real toads in them."
Last night was not a good dog snuggling night. At 2:00 a.m. it was 80 degrees outside breezy and smoky. One of Wyoming's great virtues is after a 96 degree day you can count on a 60 degree night most times. So I turned on the swamp cooler and it worked all night to produce the coolness that allows sleep unless sharing a bed with two dogs who are monitoring closely who is getting petted and complaining if disparities are evident. Honey chews my hand and Buster licks my ears if things are out of balance. He just gets overcome with affection in the morning and wakes me with little kisses on my ears- can you blame him? No wonder I am tired.
I read another E. Annie Proulx story in another New Yorker. "Those Old Cowboy Songs." Her stories break my heart and this one kind of reminded me of my friend Rasty who had a hard time coming up with Irish immigrant ancestors too. Terrible things did happen to people in early Wyoming. Proulx, though not profane, walks the line between Realism and Naturalism. I had a college professor who explained that difference: "Realism is where you call a spade a spade. Naturalism is where you call it a fucking shovel." Her stories also put me in mind of Marianne Moore's definition of modern poetry: "Imaginary gardens with real toads in them."
posted by Stephen's Pictures | 12:48 PM
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