“What’s to know about bacteria?” say we, with a shrug of a shoulder; we who know close to nothing about it.
“We agreed that the body she inhabited was doing its finishing work . . .”
When I was younger, I would never have said, “Just deal with it.” I didn’t know I could be curt. But now I’m nearly two.
I have a pup who needs me to return to some familiar time cycles: time to play, time to be outside, time for grooming, cuddling, roughhousing, learning, time to find mom’s sock and exchange it for a treat.
Go ahead. While you’re reading, try putting the word “while” in your nose.
“Scooter! No!” came my mom’s hissed whisper as she shot through the door and ordered me back inside.
I am now 22-months old, and practically every day of those months has exposed me (and my human family) to some sort of “first, and well, right, some sort of thrill.” You may remember the first Lambchop I eviscerated . . .
Hey, we know what we like. And bless their caring hearts, Industry knows what we like, and serves it up.
“What are these?” Scooter asked, sniffing fresh cut flowers. He was suspicious. “What are they doing where Dad sits to call me for my halter and leash?” He’s not in the best of moods.
“He was tragically wrong . . . yet never doubted the rightness of what he did.” Bill Bryson
We headed west on Puget Sound, toward rips in Rich Passage where the current was running strong, and in our favor.
“How about this?” I asked today, bringing the from the Pet Store a near-pillow-sized stuffed Monkey. He wants something big to challenge.
“. . . when thou no more was good, when that goldendoodle glory departed thee; thou resembl’st a teenage boy with a deep voice you love exercising quite inappropriately. You bark out of turn. “Thou resembl’st now a pain in the behind,” I said.
This was not my idea. That is, the beach is always my idea. An RV, never. However, who could say “No” when the offer of opportunity presented itself to my man of adventure? He chose the mode of travel. I chose the destination.
It’s true. Stress creates a “fight or flight” response in humans. However, say some experts in such matters (and who am I to argue with Experts in Such Matters), the female of our species . . .
This past Sunday morning, Scooter discovered a gift left for him at our apartment door.
It was clutter of concepts crowding my mind as I moved from sleep to wakefulness, from bed to slippers on the floor. How is “I” defined?