A Tribute Party for Two Wonderful Old Critters

warning: today's post might squeeze tears out of your eyes.  

We live each day appreciating any time we've got left with our beloved, creaky old cat.

We have some good neighbour friends who have been living that same kind of borrowed time with their dog.  Jazz was a pound dog who chose her new people very wisely.  She's possibly 15 years old, has raised two human boys to ages 11 and 8, and is one of the best dogs I've ever met.  

On the weekend, we had everybody over to our house for a Jazz and Nigel Tribute Party.  We know we haven't got long with these two.  It's time to throw a party for them now, not after they've passed on.

It was our goodbye to Jazz.  She has been failing for the last week, badly, and it's been just a matter of making the appointment to see the vet for the last time ever.  We knew it.  She'd perk up a little during our visit but soon sink back onto the comforter I put on the floor for her.  

I scooped Nigel off my bed for a last visit with Jazz.  Years ago, Jazz would trot through our house, sniffing all the corners, wagging her tail when she came across the cat.  He in turn, would bristle slightly and give her a rather condescending look.  They didn't ever seem hostile to each other, but they weren't exactly good buddies.  Just sort of tolerated each other when the dog came over with her family.

At this point, they're both so old, they just sort of sat there and acknowledged each other.  

"Yep."

"You too?"

"Uh huh."

"Yep."

"Alright then."

"Yeah."

Of course, the Pug had to get in on the attention.  I am a little worried about his state of mind when these two friends are gone.  He might feel lost without Jazz.  She was so important to him when he was a puppy.  She taught him how to behave himself.  She let him run under her belly and between her paws.  As she got older and less agile, she would lie down and bark as he ran around her and jumped over her.  She is the dog who showed Dobby how to walk on a leash, a skill he later passed on to another little young dog.  

And he will not know what to do without Nigel. If the cat leaves the couch, the dog is right there waiting to find out what they're going to do next.  (Same thing they do every night.  Try and take over the world.)

We gave the old guy and the old girl some well deserved treats.  Jazz got a few little chunks of meat hand fed to her.  She didn't even have to get up for it.  Nigel on the other hand, proved how aware he is that the rules have changed in his old age.

We turn our backs for a minute and there he is, IN the chip bowl, licking out the dip bowl.

The wine glass was already empty or I figure he'd have gone for that too.

He washed it down with a nice drink of flower water.  There was something hilariously wrong with this.  Instead of clapping and shouting and reprimanding like I would have years ago... we laughed adoringly and took pictures.  Don't think the cat doesn't know it.  He's working it.  As he should be.

It was a bittersweet celebration.  All 8 of us took turns at dinner describing a great moment with Jazz and Nigel.  We had so many good chuckles and memorable stories.  It felt good to share, but hurt knowing that our time is running out.

As I write this, Nigel is sprawled over my right arm.  I can still hear him purr faintly and when I type he wobbles.  Dobby is curled up, snoring, at my left hip.  Jazz is living her last hour.  I will miss her so much.  I'll be praying for a peaceful end, and for the people who love her to remember how awesome she was.  I know what they'll be going through.  I've been there and I will again, sooner than I'd want to.

It's so hard to lose a pet.  They are family members.  It's a different kind of pain, mourning a critter who dies.  But it's worth it.  If having animals for companionship means outliving them, knowing that their loss will hurt, it's still better than not having a warm furry friend at all.  

Bless you, Jazz.

...and Nigel slowly jumps off the couch and wobbles his way over to his food dish...

Life With a Very Old Cat

I didn't expect, way back in the summer of 1991, that the big beautiful black cat we brought home from the pound would still be with us after 6 homes, two human children, a puppy, a giant renovation job, a million trips down the biggest highway in the province, and almost eighteen years.

Assuming that he was born in 1990, Nigel the cat is 19 this year.  For any cat, this is quite an accomplishment! Considering that he had some health issues, it's amazing.  He had some chronic cystitis at about age 5, and was on medicated food for years.  The vets warned us that his kidneys would be compromised by the medication, but I figured it was better to avoid that awful cystitis.  I opted for quality of life rather than quantity.  And look at him now.

Yeah, he's still here, but the years are really showing on him.

I bundled him up for a visit to the vet on Monday.  I don't take him every year any more.  I mean, why?  He's a house cat.  He's old.  He doesn't like going to the vet.  I'd rather leave him on the couch where he's happy.  Well, after a little squeeze here and there, the vet told me that he's... old.  His kidneys are pretty much shrivelled little prunes, which would explain why he drinks so much water and his litter box needs to be picked through twice a day.  He's lost all his muscle tone, he's probably totally deaf, and his balance isn't good. Clearly, he hasn't got much longer with us.  

We spent most of his check up discussing what to do WHEN.  What if he expires during the night.  What to do with his remains: the kids want to keep his ashes.  Will I stay with him if he needs to be put down: damn right I will.  If I have to make that decision, he's going out in my arms.  

I got some advice on feeding him, like continue to mix up his food since he's become a picky eater in his old age.  Add a bit of water to keep him hydrated.  I was asked how his quality of life is, and I answered honestly that this guy has a pretty good life.  He's the same guy he's always been... just a lot slower!

He fully deserves the best retirement I can give him.  He has gotten me through some tough times.  When I was newlywed, and lonely because my young husband was locked up in the recording studio for 72 hours straight, I had my big vigorous cat to talk to.  He calmed me when I was the 20 year old married-chick college student, not sure exactly where my life was headed.  When we moved twice a year for a couple of years, we dragged him along with us.  When I was stuck in an apartment with no balcony and a nasty view of the dumpster in the parking lot, Nigel was my connection to nature and the animal world.  He sprawled across my pregnant belly and purred two babies into the world.  During our toddler years, he only scratched a kid once - and she learned real quick not to torment the cat!

He has definitely earned a peaceful life for his last years.

Giving him that good life in his old age has a whole new set of challenges.  

Because of his little dehydration problems, we have to make sure he's always got water to drink.  It requires constant vigilance, because the dog slurps up a fair amount as well.  There's a double bowl upstairs in the dining room, plus another in the downstairs bathroom.  He's got a bowl for wet food and one for dry kibble.  The wet food is a mess.  The kids hate spooning it into the dish for him.  

He doesn't wash himself anymore.  Jethro figures he decided he doesn't have to... because I'll do it for him.  Yup, I will.  He doesn't use his scratching post anymore, which means I have to trim his claws.  He's also developed a strong aversion to having those claws trimmed.  I suspect a bit of arthritis.  I do one claw each day or so, and get it over with fast, preferably while he's snoozing.  I don't want him to struggle and hurt himself.

He tracks cat litter all over the house.  He isn't very agile anymore, which means that he often steps in the wet stuff on his way out of the box.  Yep, it's disgusting.  I sweep up litter every time I'm downstairs, and we've all learned to crush down our revulsion at finding litter-critters on the couches where he curled up for a nap after taking a wiz.  I have a really hard time with the litter-critters.  I hate finding it in my bed.  So gross, so gross, so gross.  But I love that cat, and he's still alive, so I brush all the litter crumbs away and wash my hands and tell myself that I put up with it to still have him.

At least once each day I have to pick wet litter clumps out of his paws.  Yick.  I seriously love this cat to do this!  

He was never allowed to sleep under the bedsheets or on my pillow... until he got OLD.  Now he sleeps right beside me, covered up, or on my pillow wrapped around my head.  

Sometimes his body creaks when he walks.  Last week I watched him turn around in the sunbeam to find a nap spot in front of the sliding doors, but instead of gliding into a nice lie-down like a cat does... he fell over.  I felt awful.  He sort of sprawled there for a few seconds, and then curled his tail over his back paws and pretended he meant to do that.

We handle him very cautiously now. I remember when Jethro and I would pat him by slapping him in the ribs repeatedly.  He'd lean into it and purr!  Can't imagine doing that now.  All four of us pick him up gently and are constantly aware of his location to avoid stepping on him or bumping him.

He rewards us by being his wonderful sassy, demanding, superior self.  Even though he's just fur and bones, he asserts himself and his need for attention when he feels it's necessary.  We will always make room for him if he needs lap time.  He lets us know when his dish is getting empty.  The cat who wasn't allowed on the table now perches there, staring us down, when he needs something.

If he remembers, he jumps up on the Girl's bed and purrs her to sleep, just as he has for years.  That purr used to be strong and constant, but has become squeaky and louder on the exhale.  The content look on his face hasn't changed much though.

He is like the cat version of the little old man with his pants yanked up to his ribs.  Slow, deaf, forgetful, and stubborn.  He has his routine: bed, dish, water, box, couch.  Repeat.  He makes his way from one end of the house to the other, stopping for a loud howling meow ("What ya say there, sonny?") and navigating the stairs one... at... a... time, rather than jumping two at once like he did years ago.  He always makes it to the box on time.  

And when it's necessary, which it is quite often, he'll take the time to slap the dog across the face.  

Ah... The Golden Years...

The Quiet Day

It had been a very short night.  

My sleep was full of dreams.  At least these ones were somewhat funny. I dreamed that I got a new job, at some kind of ice cream shop, running a cash register which worked without money.  I love dream physics.  My new boss called me away from my task to make me stir a goopy ice cream concoction.  I had to stir it with the lid from a tupperware container.  Really substandard.  I turned to her and announced that I was not hired to do that, and I wouldn't be doing jobs that I wasn't being paid to do.  This is when I realized that the part of "boss" was being played in my dream by the woman who, in real life, was my supervisor at my last "real" job a few years back.  She was the one who gasped in horror when I told her I wasn't being paid enough to load the dishwasher when I was supposed to be on cash.  Like, dishwasher or cash.  Not both.  Uniform or scrubs, what's it gonna be?  There's only one of me.  I developed a real minimum wage attitude problem.  So in my dream I just let her have it, only because it was a dream. I was incredibly witty and clever about the whole thing.  

Darn I wish I could remember what I said.  In my dream, I got into my car, which was a bright yellow VW NewBeetle, and escaped from the wet grey pavement strip mall world.  The clutch was so hard to push in that I had to take a deep breath before I shoved my left foot down on it.  Also the gear shift was like a crazy Rat Fink shifter; I had to reach up over my head to get it.  Man, it was exhausting. I was so tired by the time I got to my dream-home (which may have been a trailer, I mean there's no logic to dream-physics) to see dream-Jethro.  I told him I quit my job. He said, "Right on!  Was it a good quit?"

"It was an awesome quit!"  I sank down into my dream-couch and told him, word for word, about the triumphant quit.  And now I can't remember my victory speech.  

All that backtalk and sass took a lot out of me.  To make matters even worse, it all morphed into that recurring dream that the horses opened the gate and were wandering around in the barn yard and down the laneway.  I had to walk down all of those dream-horses and chase them back into the corral, and then get a chain and clasp to close the gate, but the chain kept unwinding and the clasp kept unclasping, so I had to do it over and over.  I woke up feeling like I'd been working all night.  

Truth is, I put in a long day at the studio the day before.  By the time we got to bed it was Stupid o' Clock.  This morning I got up, made sure everybody else was up, fed the critters, ate my breakfast at the dining room table with my giant light box shining several thousand megawatts of simulated sunshine into my eyes (I'll tell you about that too, later) after which I slunk back into bed.  It was around 9 am. I flaked out on everybody.  I checked out.  My neighbour came to the door looking for her walking buddy, meaning me, and ended up taking just my dog instead.  I know, my neighbours are awesome.  

I woke up around 11 but it took me another... hour?  to actually get out of bed.  It was like magnets were holding me there, but in reality it was just the critters.  They breathe sleep on me.  Some day I will get my son, the 12 yr old scientist, to prove that cats and dogs actually do have a special chemical in their exhalations that lulls humans to sleep.

And they were soooo warm.  Nigel, the ancient little-old-man-cat, can still generate a good amount of body heat, despite his shrinking body.  He was curled up at my shoulder, almost under my chin.  I used to be so grossed out by the thought of having a cat on my pillow.  That's what growing up on a farm will do to you.  Never let the outdoor dirt end up in your bed!!!  But none of those barn cats ever lived to be nineteen years old.  I only personally know of one cat who made it to that age, and he was also a black cat.  They are lucky; don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise.  Nigel's sleep inducing powers have increased over the years.  He's perfected it and loves to show off his superior sleep skills.  

Just for making it to age 19 he's allowed to sleep on my pillow.  He's allowed to do pretty much anything he wants now.  I don't know how much time I've got with him anymore, so he can sleep on my forehead if he wants to.  

The pug somehow ended up on my bed, even though he can't jump high enough to get there on his own.  Oh he is good at sleeping...  and he is warm... he curled up behind my knees and got busy with the snoring.  

How could I resist?

There are a lot of things I SHOULD be doing.  I feel guilty almost daily for not having a "real job."  I have to be reminded regularly by my husband that we talked about this.  Working at real job means less time for the training needed to pass my riding tests and get my Instructor's certificate.  It also means less time with the kids.  They still need one parent who does not put in 15 hour work days.  Jethro repeats what he said years ago when I quit: "If you keep working there, you're never going to get that book finished, and I really want you to be able to finish it."

I know.  My husband is awesome.

I feel guilty for not earning a much-needed income.  We talk it out and it keeps coming back to doing what we're doing: live cheap, do without luxuries, and buy everything used, or pick it up off the side of the road when someone else is done with it.  

But I still feel guilty for going back to bed while he's out there working for a living.  You know, I might feel guilty because it's raining today.  Maybe that's just my problem.  

Tomorrow, it'll all be different.  

It'll be big round hay bale, barn chores, housecleaning, and an afternoon with the piano tuner.  Then it's bank, library, dinner, piano lessons.  Somewhere in there I need to write.  Then Friday, it's back to the studio, where I'll be filling the truck box with another load for the dump. I can guarantee it'll be a long day at the studio.  There's no such thing as a short day.

I really relished that quiet morning nap with my doggencat.   

SLEEP WITH ONE EYE OPEN...

GRIPPING YOUR PILLOW TIGHT!

It's midnight.  I'm tired, tired, tired, and have been since 6 am, when I woke up the first time today.  I was just as tired at 7:15 and again at 10, after my one-hour morning nap.  I think I could sleep all day.  Except of course when it's time to sleep.  I mean, that's prime anxiety time, am I right?  Night's when the nightmares come around, and man, I have been running a thriving nightmare ranch this week.  

Beside me, in a perfectly unwrinkled envelope, sits 53 pages worth of my own freakin' brilliance.  My name is in one corner and a very official stamp is in the other.  In the middle, the address for Very Impressive Literary Agency, Toronto Ontario.  

I can't stick the envelope shut until I look it over one more time.  It needs one more frantic examination. 



You can just never, ever, be too careful when it comes to editing.  You can give your work to others for a proofread, but in the end you really have to do it yourself.

(Although it is extremely helpful to have friends who believe in you!)

(Even if you often suspect that they might not be sparing your delicate feelings sometimes, when you ask them for their opinion.)

Possibly, the source of my unrelenting dreams are tied to this book.  I have not been able to let it go.  I sent it out, it got rejected, I fixed a few things, and now I don't know what else to fix.  Y'know because it's PERFECT.  Right?  Ha ha.  

And the whole time, my brain turns it over and over, fretting and chewing, until it all bursts out in the dark: a building made of broken cement blocks and dry weeds, inappropriate groping, hiding stolen goods under a long red skirt, running for my life across a parking lot from jackal headed pursuers, rivers of paint, barns full of broken glass, purple skies, boxes full of letters blocking the way to the next room, looking down on my own self and covering me with a sheet to protect me while the house falls down around me.  

I have got to get this book out of my hands. 

I just have to look it over one more time.

Look carefully.



Exit light.  Enter night.  

... most fun song ever written about nightmares... sing along...

Sunday, Day of Rest, as demonstrated by Dog and Cat.

Dog and Cat, living together. It can work quite well actually, so long as the dog knows that the cat is the ultimate boss.

And the boss says, lie down.

In the sunshine.




So the dog does it. The cat is a professional relaxer; the dog is learning his lessons from the master.

(Do enlarge this picture- they've both got their eyes closed and one has his tongue stickin' out!)

I was raised to take Sunday as a day of relaxation and recreation, but it's a tradition that's kind of fading in importance. Some have to go to work. But I do think this is a concept to hang onto even if it isn't practical every week. Even if it's not for religious reasons, it's just good sense.

Save one day of the week for this, for slowing down, letting everything slide for a while. Enjoy the sunshine. Hang with someone you like, or at least, tolerate. Stop working. You have to work, and should work, and put everything into it, but then you need a break. This dog works his curly tail off, barking at all those who dare to walk past our house, how dare they. He's gotta take an afternoon off. And just... be.




"Dude."



"Yeah man?"



"Uh huh."

(Thanks for not saying anything about the Ryobi Saws-all sitting in its case all winter by the sliding door. Honestly I didn't think winter would hit so early this year. And last so long. At least I can see the deck frame again... maybe another month and we'll finish it. Until then, the critters can use it as a chin rest when they're sunning themselves at the back door.)


My cool cat here, who actually does own the house, has decided that he's allowed to walk around on the dining room table now. I'm not crazy about it but it's pretty hard to yell at an old deaf cat to get off the table.


At least we think he's deaf. Hard to tell. I don't yell at him anymore.


He's always been more of a lover than a fighter. I just gently lift him off the table. Or give him a scratch on the chin.






He's done an awesome job of helping to raise this dog into a good little citizen.


"This is how it works, kid."





If there would have been room between them and the table and the piano, I might have pulled up a blanket and curled up myself.

Where our weekend took us...

First of all, DO NOT ASK who will be nominated for any big Canadian music awards next April. I do not know. I do not!!!!! I have no idea!!!!!!!!!! Don't ask because I will not tell...because I don't know.

After hangin in the studio lounge for five hours- just like the bad ol days!- Jethro and I left the studio for our hotel and dinner. I was so pleased that the Canadian Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences footed the bill. THANK YOU CARAS! Especially with the weather turning nasty, I appreciated it.

We drove downtown and he signalled left. "Oh my gosh, are we staying here?"




"Yeah, this is our hotel for the night."

"AWESOME! We're staying in the castle!!"




Now it doesn't take much to amuse me, we all know that, but seriously, this is, I am pretty sure, the nicest hotel I've ever stayed in. And this is good considering that for a little hick farm girl, I'm quite well travelled. Again, Thank you CARAS for all the travel opportunities!

(There have to be one or two perks to being married to the overworked underpaid music biz.)




This castle was built in about 1902 and was actually the London Armoury. I'm not sure on its history exactly, but it appears that the hotel was built straight up from the inside of the Armoury. I assume it would have been an open courtyard inside originally.




This is where we ate dinner on Friday night- and breakfast on Saturday morning.




Our room looked a lot like this, the biggest difference being that our room had some lovely black and white photographic prints, in black frames with white matting, of the old Armoury building. Classssssy!




Real wood furniture. Not particle board. There was no awful heater hum, and the room was the right temperature.

We were on the FIFTEENTH FREAKIN FLOOR BABY! It's not often I look down on the world from that height.

I did not nag anybody to floss teeth. I did not clean up after anybody or clean up after any critters. All I had to do was listen to nine men discuss the technicalities of recording/mixing for a few hours, and then I got my man all to myself for a few more hours!

Here's the funny thing: kid free and I talked about my kids at dinner. Of course. I was sitting beside the young assistant from the studio (great guy- smart, friendly, sort of looked like Brad Pitt with a buzzcut only younger, plus he was wearing a shirt with his actual skeleton printed on it in green) and talking about Our First Concert. His- Soundgarden, 1996, Down On The Upside. Me- Cyndi Lauper, 1984. My kids- White Stripes, 2005. And how Bucky is a huge Audioslave fan and we've recently broken down and decided heck, why not let him listen to Rage. Young Assistant Guy thought it was awesome that we're raising the new generation of metalhead. I'm glad somebody thinks so.

When we returned to the farm, where we'd stashed the kids and pets, on Saturday afternoon, I got a hug from that budding metalhead that melted my heart. My dog was beside himself with happiness and I got a lovely smile out of my daughter. Worth leaving home for? Worth coming home to!

The weather has been ugly here. Winter hit a week and a half ago and it's here to stay. I didn't ride my horses this weekend because it was either viciously windy or treacherous, with a crust of ice over the snow. I did give the horses their fall de-wormer, finally, and brushed their shaggy winter coats.

I feel that I spent most of the weekend driving. Altogether, including a trip into town with my Dad to shop at TSC, I was in a moving vehicle for 7 hours. I think I still have highway hypnosis.

Today it is both windy and icy. I'd rather blog than get in the truck and slide to the grocery store. I am not miles away from town. I'm in town. Five blocks. I have to suck it up and do it. We need food. Stock up and be ready for the next snowstorm. Go out and fight the bear.

That hotel room seems pretty far away right now...!

My Old Cat

I love Nigel. He entered my life very soon after we got back from our honeymoon/ road trip because I knew that my new young husband would be working like a maniac and I needed some company. I also had to leave the family cat with the family when I left the farm. I needed a little cat friend. This total cool cat was the guy. I loved him instantly, with his knowing wink and his one crooked ear. We named him after Nigel Tufnel. That was more than 15 years ago.

He's at least 16 now and I don't know how much longer we have with him. Last fall I thought he was a goner. The kids have been warned that we have to love him up now while we can.

Today I went into my bedroom to get my glasses and there he was, all stretched out in the sun. He is so bony now that there's almost nothing left of him. Every time I see him I have to stop and make sure he's still breathing, and he breathes so slowly now, with me standing there waiting for his ribs to rise. He looks like he's been deflated.



When I pat him, he lifts his head and says, "Merrr." He purrs as soon as I rub his head and tickle under his chin.


I really believe that cats were put here to teach us how to live. Sometimes you just have to snooze in a sunbeam. I took some time to pat him, running my hand over the soft coat covering his bones. There's hardly any flesh left on him anymore. I don't think he hears well anymore. Skinny as a rail; deaf as a post. Fence cat.


Because of him, I'll never be catless again. Someday I'll welcome another little rescued cat into my home. I'll put up with the inconveniences and hassles of being owned by a cat just to have the joys:

finding him in my bedding

checking on sleeping kids and seeing the green eyes glowing back at me from the foot end of the bed

or from the pillow

being meowed at when it's time for a cat cuddle

the paw in the face every morning

a purring love machine inviting himself onto my chest when I most very much really need a friend



Just look at this face. Ancient! All knowing! I'm sure you can see why I love him so much!

Fun on Friday

I'm actually in a bit of a foul mood today, but I'm going to try to forget all the crap in my head and cheer myself up with some of my favourite things.

MY HORSE
I just love him. You all know by now what a character he is: arrogant, stubborn, and pushy. Everything you don't want in a husband, and that makes these qualities okay to have in a horse. But he's also good with the kids. And he knows what a camera is. He does. It's hard to take a bad picture of this horse!


ROCK STARS There has been much talk around my house lately about the new Audioslave single and how we are going to buy this album when it drops. I'm surprised at this new song because it's kind of upbeat and good-times-bonfire-truck-tailgate which are all good things! but just not what I expected. But of course, me being a loser for a handsome man with a mic, I'm looking forward to More Chris Cornell.

He blew my mind about 15 years ago with this whole shirtless Seattle long haired thing, with the wailing voice and the flames and all that. I'm hopeless.



Honestly those guys are so talented it wipes me out.







Also we're still pigging out on Red Hot Chili Peppers. Some of us just about can't get enough. I'm totally despondent that I couldn't get tickets for their September Toronto shows.

This morning I picked up new ones from AFI and Wolfmother. (I probably have clothes older than these kids.)

I'm taking a big chance here; I only know one single from each. I plan to listen intently for a few days. I'll get back to you!

THE PUG
He gives me a reason to get out of the house. I'm so sick of the streets in this subdivision but he doesn't care. He just wants to walk with me.

MY CAT

He tracks litter across the floor but makes up for it with the purring and the affection.

I GOT MY DINING ROOM TABLE CLEARED OFF

It's just beautiful. Look at the light. The negative space. So minimalist and sculptural. Brad Pitt would love this.

BRAD PITT
Ok he doesn't really cheer me up because he's bad. He dumped his wife. He got his girlfriend preggers while still legally married. He's one of those "Oh baby I will totally love your kids like they were my own" guys. But he has been one of my favourites for so long. Johnny Suede. And also because I dreamed that he took me grocery shopping and I know it was just a dream...but it was so nice of him.


MY KIDS
They're just so awesome...they amaze me constantly. For the last week they've been intricately linked with their neighbour friends here in town and I have mixed feelings about it. It's great that they have friends to play with. It's good for us parents who trade off the watching of them. It's not so great for me because I'm still not used to having all these people around me, even if they're people I like. My entire adult life has been spent in an urban place (shudder) and I still haven't adjusted to being surrounded by all these houses and other people. However, my kids are having a great summer. I hope they let me spend some of it with them!

MY GARDEN

Look at this. Yes I have a farmer mailbox. It makes me happy to look at it.

DANCING
I don't care how much my back hurts. I'm gonna dance after supper tonight.

JOHNNY
Bestest just said yesterday that she finds it funny that I fell in love with Edward Scissorhands. Her daughter KK took offense to this. Johnny can do no wrong for KK and I. This weekend I'm going to finish watching Don Juan DeMarco. I love the faked accent. I love how Marlon Brando never looks like he's acting! Most of all I love the scene at the end with the meeting full of shrinks. (Yeesh. A whole room full.)

I hope I get my horse fix this weekend. I might not. But to fill the void I'm going to dance, sing, pull weeds, and maybe even pick up the guitar again. And I'm going to force myself to keep writing this novel I'm working on. Be happy dear readers. Even if you feel like crap and the gloom settles on you while the sun is shining. Even if you want to throw yourself off a cliff. We might not be able to just shake it off so easily but I for one refuse to be ruled by it.