Unholy Ruckus

I swear to god, I have enough trouble sleeping, so a pack of feral dogs at midnight is something I don't need. I'm nothing if not-sentimental and send them packing with a couple of well-placed marbles from the Wrist-Rocket. One of them, a pit-bull cross, wants to give me some trouble, but I dissuaded him with a shot to the ear. Still, though they are gone, they got me fully awake, and that's the worst of it. Means getting a drink and rolling a smoke and considering my place in the pecking order. Scott had made a great vinaigrette, sweet, with a touch of jalapeno jam, and I toss some, with baby spinach leaves, halved grape tomatoes, and a smoked mozzarella I'd held aside. It's so good I feel guilty. I read over the pages I'm going to read at the lodge tomorrow. Then sit for an hour or so, in the sunlight, on the sofa, thinking about what I'd just read. Very nice pork tenderloin sandwich, with horse-radish sauce, and a small bowl of chili. Joel, The Wittgenstein Plumber, calls from Atlanta, and he sounds upbeat. When I knocked over the three piles of books, because Modigliani, stuck out into the travel lane. I can explain that.