Wet dog

It's time to start over.  Time to bathe the skunky dog, time to replace the worn out light fixtures that have needed replacing for the last two years, time for a big trip to Goodwill, time to re-clothe the kids, time to say goodbye to the band of roosters.  After the other day when I found them attacking our one lone hen she laid her last egg and took off.  She is gone.  A friend remarked, "can you blame her? She suddenly realized she had SIX husbands!!"

As I bathed (tortured) the dog I sensed his inability to see past the bath.  He is almost human after all, the way he looks at me and knows what I'm thinking is eerie, the way he understands what I'm saying, remarkable.  Even his many neuroses...all very human-like.  Sometimes I don't like to look in this dog-mirror.  There he was, standing in the baby pool (outdoor shower soon! please!) utterly miserable, dripping wet, half his normal size, looking at me with those sad, sad eyes unable to rationalize that in about an hour he'd be mostly dry.  It was a 90 degree day after all.  It struck me how stuck he was in the present and how when I feel most like a wet dog it's so hard to see myself dry, fluffy, clean and white, better than my dirty self before.

This is one of the things that keeps me the most hopeful about life and relationships whether they be with others or myself:  there are a million and one chances to start over.