Dog Tangling

Fucking animals, man, just what I need. Four in the morning and Dog, defending her turf, finds it necessary to challenge a coon at the compost pile. I could do without this. I didn't want a pet, what I wanted was something to eat my left-overs and wag their tail when I got home. Now I find myself flushing wounds with sodium chloride, holding her down with a foot on her neck. A lot of that outer ear is unnecessary. If you live in a tree tip pit, appearance isn't high on your list. I'm about ready to take an apartment in town, scrap the natural world as a bad idea, then I think about noise and how much I hate it. I jammed a pain pill down her throat, I need sleep, not grief; she settles in the dirt, beneath the house, and I roll a final smoke. Not a field surgeon, not even an adequate nurse, just a passer-by. A goodly nap on the sofa before the sun woke me. Warm enough to wash my hair in the morning so I head off to town early, buy groceries, then get my hair cut. Thank god. I was getting a bit on the far side of shabby. Crazy day at work. I finish installing the student show, get the labels up, clean that gallery, but there's some kind of bickering going on amongst the ladies, a politic I don't involve myself with, though Pegi and I talk after everyone else leaves, and I assure her that she is not only correct, but the boss. Which is germane to the issue with my daughters, because the second week that they think I should be away (with them) is a week in which a staff of seven will be shorted to four and there is a major show to take down and pack for shipping. A death in the family or severe personal injury are the only excuses I can imagine for not being here. What I do, the way I do it, my commitment, defines me. It'll pass, the days come and go, eventually we'll be beyond that date, I'll be there when I can and not be there when I can't. Simple algorithm. Beautiful today, broken cloud-cover, mostly sun, 60 degrees, heaven on earth. So much water, some roads are closed, the debris fields are going to be huge, and I have to come home a different way; but that's cool, because I see everything from a different perspective. Coming home, the truck is loaded with supplies, I feel like I'm going into a remote camp in the Arctic, the twice a year mail-plane. Basmati rice, Arborio rice, potatoes, bacon, back-up coffee, ultra-pasteurized cream because it keeps forever, several chunks of meat that I will redefine later, bread, eggs (!), an acorn squash, two hard avocados, a bag of dog food, half-a-dozen books at the library that I'd ordered on inter-library loan. I can get anything, reading- wise, my little heart desires. The minute I hear about a book, I can get a copy to read. It's a great system. I still buy books, but I don't waste my money. A pound of butter to put in the freezer, some cod fillets, various canned goods, beans, chicken stock, a couple of Progresso soups (I'm fond of their chicken noodle), candles, from the fire-sale basket. I'm driving in. I have to stop, of course, because of the goddamn frog ponds, 150 feet from the house, and then I have to carry everything the rest of the way. It was Kim that told me, wrap your head around this, and he is also correct, that at a certain point, a craftsman blames his tools. My left foot is shot, at the end of a day .What I realized, thinking about it, was that the museum needed me, for the next couple of years. They're fortunate, at this point in time, for me to be there. What did I say earlier, a match made in heaven. I hear the trains in Kentucky, they haunt my sleeping. But I drive in, and I'm so exhilarated, I actually swim a few strokes.