in a week

I've not gone running in almost a week. I drift between pangs of guilt and shrugs of not giving a shit. The two are spread out evenly, the pangs and the shrugs. I figure that's pretty healthy - a good balance always is.

While not running I've done other things.

I've noticed a lost hubcap. I don't know when I lost it, and I'm pretty sure I'll never find it again. I don't miss it. In fact, I'm tempted to get rid of its two remaining brethren. They're tattered and make an awful racket when the windows are rolled down. Perhaps if I wait long enough they'll all be gone.

I've been to a funeral. I got there late. I stood outside the door and listened for awhile to the muffled eulogy before entering with the other late-comers.

I've held back tears and helped dry others'.

I've given a lot of hugs.

I've received a few myself.

I've driven a lot, and as such have not drunk enough.

I've not worked on the book. This also provokes pangs and shrugs, though with less balance. There are far more pangs than shrugs on this one. I figure that's pretty healthy too.

I've contemplated life, death and the universe a great deal and know no more about any of them.

I've watched the first series of House on DVD, and wondered whether I was funnier when I was grumpier.

I've chose sleep over exercise, friends over sleep and orange juice over beer.

The latter might have been a mistake.

the burnt ends

It's not a shorts day. In the battle between clean laundry and weather-friendly clothes, the latter lost. I'm cold, but I'm not smelly. That must count for something.

It's not a flip-flop day either, but in for a penny...

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My father jokes that his dowry was a poodle.

She was black, quite small and deeply devoted to my mother. This put us at odds for the first 5 1/2 years of my life. Tilly and I competed for mom's affection and attention. More often than not, she won. To be fair, she deserved to - I was petulant and spoiled, while she was loyal, loving and probably smelled better than I did. Tilly was a smart dog, and knew if I hugged my mother in her presence it was in part to get a jealous growl from her. She snapped at me but never bit me.

I hated her. She resented me.

Just before my sixth birthday, we arrived at some sort of truce. I stopped baiting her and she stopped snapping. She let me hug my mother. After a month or so she let me pet her. It was civil. I finally understood her place and she begrudgingly allowed me mine. She rested her head on my leg once or twice.

At the end of the summer the family went to the Cape to visit friends. For the first time, Tilly slept in my room. One night, late, I woke to her wheezing on the floor. She rasped, and felt hot to touch. I woke my folks.

The vet put her to sleep that night.

I've not thought of her in awhile.