ATT linemen are outside on ladders, hopefully fixing our internet connection which has been so spotty I routinely lose connection on Skype calls. Clara is losing her damn mind – finally, something going on in her line of sight above the camellia bushes. Poor old dog, I can tell she’s feeling her age. She’s moving slow, not peeing much, loath to leave the porch when it’s dark and raining. She used to run and leap and bound. She got the party started, always. The doctor says she’s okay, just old. She’s such a sweet girl. I worry I didn’t give her best life which would have included beach walks every day and rolls in sand and endless treats and extra Himalayan yak cheese and fish for dinner every night. I hope she’s happy. I know Clemmy and Dozy are. They love us and want to be with us. Everything else is just bonus. Clara, I think, has deeper existential needs. She’s a border collie – she knows that somewhere there are sheep that she’s not herding. Sometimes when she lies on the office and heaves a great sigh, I imagine she’s wondering what would have happened if she had been adopted by different people, ones with fields full of lambing ewes and rabbits to chase in her off time. Instead, she has this writer person who rarely moves from the desk and a small Morkie barking at her heels. She has angst. I have guilt. We are good pals.
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