I have to figure out what I want to be next.
Nature-- in this case, my mind-- abhors a vacuum.
Ergo, I'm starting to have dangerous thoughts like "Really, how hard could
it be to cut my own bangs?" and "You know, let's just take the wall down and then
decide what we'll do with the kitchen."
I've had Consort hide the sledgehammer and the good scissors and I've assigned myself a project; every day for a month, I have to blog. It's my Nanowrimo
, only it's not 1,000 words, it didn't start 29 days ago and I'm not surrounded by a supportive group of peers, unless you count those nice people who screamed a few seconds ago "QUINN WE'VE TALKED ABOUT YOU CUTTING YOUR OWN BANGS."
Every day, I must sketch a small picture of my life. There may not be a moral, or a decent story arc or even a point. But the snow-globe which is my consciousness must be shook, and a certain chaos must be created, so that I can go back to...I don't know, showing you the wee little snowman in the middle of my brain again.
And perhaps one blog entry will be about how snow globes are an excellent metaphor but not for the creative process.
So, the dog has an injury on his foot. It's all very weird; we took a walk, he bossed around a couple of Australian Cattle Dogs, he was never out of my sight, he indicated no problems, but by the time we got home, he was limping. Close inspection of his back foot found what looked like a blister-after-the-skin-comes-off on his toe pad; he let us touch it, but wouldn't put weight on it. The kid astutely noted that it looked like a burn. Where we were walking sometimes, mystifyingly, has AA batteries strewn about; perhaps one leaked and there was enough corrosive in there to burn his paw? I took him to a friend in animal rescue who said the dog didn't need to see the vet, but said those words no dog-owner ever wants to hear:
Apply ointment to protect it. It should heal quickly, so long as it stays dry.
Because no dog has ever looked at an injury and thought "You know what that needs? Copious lashings of my saliva."
The past few days have been an exercise in denial ("The dog will stop licking his wound once I explain how that's counterproductive to healing!"), bargaining ("Here, here is a dried pigs' ear. Please apply your saliva there"), anger ("It's like you WANT to get an infection") depression ("God, that licking sound is going to be the soundtrack of the rest of my life") and, finally, acceptance. We get the Cone of Shame tomorrow.