I think I once wrote that I ebb and flow with some things. I guess that is true here. Today has been a hard day, but it has been a day – and I often forget a lot of people would be happy with that. I mean it has not been a day with a death announcement or a medical diagnosis or one even of a headache.

I have been missing Shane. It is as if the numbness of grief has worn off and the reality of it has set in. So much was wrapped up in that dog – connections not unlike the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon.

I can see his face smiling at me and I see it in that moment right after he died, when he was so warm and so still. I didn’t want to disturb him while we waited for the vet to arrange the pain shot; I knew that dogs try to the very end to respond to people close to them. I thought it best to let him be alone and to not stimulate him. He was behind the loveseat a few feet from me. And then he died alone, without my hand on him.

I never wanted that.

People have said to me: He’s gone and he’s not coming back. It’s true, but it hurts so bad.

Shane was Quentin’s dog. Shane was young when Sydney was old and it was to a young Sydney my father spoke his last lucid words. When Mother became ill, she looked at the old dog who had come to the sofa and said, “So, you’ve come to see me, Sydney.”

Shane came to live with us and Sidney accepted him, but made him leave my presence every evening; the night belonged to me and Sydney. Cameron was Shane’s buddy; they fussed over each other. Many a Wubba was thrown thousands of times. And Cameron cried because he couldn’t do anything to help Shane in the end.

WE still cry . . . and mmaybe he’s not coming back because he never left our hearts. He’s still here.

The first really cold snap takes you back a bit; this time around the sudden drop in temperature gave us a big push. It didn’t just get cold, it got cold with a dry, biting wind.

And maybe I will write with more warmth later . . .

Oh, dear, it’s late and I froze in the nursing home parking lot and then in the parking lot at Wal-Mart and the weatherman on TV at the nursing home said, “Well, guys, there’s a 20 mph wind out there.

Are you kidding me? It is 9 degrees outside and feels like minus 8? Well, yes I thought the diet cola in the vestibule was a little almost slushy, but, my gosh, I guess it’s time to start fires . . . in the fireplaces.

Going to try to acclimate.

I’m been to Ohio and back; I’ve been to the mall. I’ve played Words with Friends and started watching a Norwegian series from Netflix – Lilyhammer. I’ve looked through 72 picture albums to possibly get the stuff to take advantage of a Shutterfly office.

I could get more detailed, but I’d bore you.

I had my hair trimmed today; it is getting grayer. I am wearing a large cardigan made of acrylic and wool; it used to be I could only wear wool when it was absolutely freezing. I can’t say that I’ve done much today, other than recover from the second and last raking of the season yesterday. Four tarps tugged to the curb; all rake, no leaf blower.

This morning we had a dusting of snow and farther east and north, they had lake-effect snow and the Toll Road and US 20 were slick and hazardous.

Now I’m sitting here thinking about my trip to Ohio tomorrow and what time I want to start . . . and if I’m ever going to get around to throwing a couple of changes of clothes into a knapsack.

And, in an unusual move for me, I turned on itunes. So far I have listened to Christmas songs, country songs, Welsh songs and right now This Little light of Mine is causing my knees to bounce.

I was wondering today if people pinch little girls’ cheeks. Years ago when I was in my 20’s at Wright-Patt, my friend and I got to remembering how men used to do it to us in the 50’s. Just pinch that spot where the dimple is and say, And how’s this sweetie today? We looked at each other and said in unison, You know, that hurt. A pat on the head would have been better, but reunions and holidays always had us nursing sore cheeks.

Perhaps that is why my grin is so wide – it just got stretched out.

Now I may just listen to the song about the old truck and Frank jumping in and biting my leg.

My father used to put out the flags on Veteran’s Day and Memorial Day for soldiers in the cemetery. The First World War ended November 11, 1918. He was born November 12, 1918 and his middle name was Pershing. believe grandmother had the Spanish Flu when he was born. I do remember people saying she was very ill.

That was 96 years ago. He died in 2000. It seems like yesterday.

My sadness at Shane’s passing has struck at chord deep in me and it resonates with the slightest wisp of thought. I hear bagpipes playing on the TV in the other room; it seems appropriate for both topics mentioned here.

I wasn’t bored, but I was feeling guilty that I had not done much today, which is, in a way, worse than being bored, and then I noticed a little lit-up brown light on my screen up where it says, “Howdy, AmeliaJake.”

I don’t know; maybe it had been there for days, but now I had seen it and I clicked on it and found alerts to comments on this blog and, gracious me, a comment on a comment I had left on another blog.

That blog post was about things going awry, to put it mildly and the author’s brother had commented it could have been worse and went on to describe tongue in cheek some details. I noted that I thought his account left me wanting more and supplied some possibilities.

I’m going to stop right here and say his comment was about a pump breaking while cattle are nudging you and your backhoe operator has imbibed and it is very cold. My reply concerned the cattle getting loose and whatnot.

He, a rancher – a real one out in Colorado – told me what really would have happened.

This is what he explained:

Nah, it would have been better if 12 yearling bulls got out, ran across the highway to a trailer park and started scratching their backs on the trailers. Moving them up to a foot up and down and sideways leading the groggy occupants to believe that they were experiencing an earthquake. Only to run out of their trailers, some barely clothed as this was nearly midnight, into the ‘dirty dozen’ bulls having the time of their life. Then after having their fun, leaving behind green graffiti on cars, trailers, and some on the ground, turned as a herd and ran back across the road into the pen they had recently vacated. They were so unruly that the only way they would stand for a lecture from a deputy was to be fed while he spoke to them about their obnoxious behavior. He did not mean for it to be humorous, but he had a hard time keeping from laughing during the lecture, especially when he asked if they had any questions. The one who did of course spoke with his mouth full, leading to an addition to their curriculum about manners around people.

Maybe he, his clever blogging sister, my innovative husband and I should write a blog about our “drive” around America. And I’m not talking the biggest ball of twine.

I don’t feel bored and my mind is off feeling guilty.

We are doing massive restructuring at the The Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse; about the only thing not happening is the “The” is not going to become a “Ye Olde”.

I’m not going to write about the details, probably no more than to say things about being tired and/or near death. I hope I am kidding about the last part. I am also not going to mention suicidal or homicidal words because, well, yeah, I don’t want it coming back to haunt me.

So, AmeliaJake, you blogged of homicide and Sgt. Friday and I here really think we ought to delve into your thoughts . . .

Gee, officer, it was a turn of a phrase . . .

Yes, well. So, AmeliaJake, you blogged of homicide and Sgt. Friday and I here really think we ought to delve into your thoughts . . .

On the other hand, some things will never change . . .
There’s THIS.
And THIS.
Watch at your discretion.

But, in case I want to override your good sense . . .

I happened to mention Joe Biden yesterday, in my normal negative way, and today Pottermom linked to this post.

I definitely need to get a dartboard. Or maybe an inflatable Joe Biden – you know, an inflatable dummy.

I tried to STAY online long enough to at least growl “Joe Biden.” However, yesterday, my connection kept failing and when I would try to reconnect, I would see one of the network choices was Police Surveillance . Oh yeah, that’s good to see; I was tempted to look out my window for a van with blacked out windows. The cows could be getting nervous here.

Ack! Wait a minute – perhaps I have typed “Joe Biden is a bozo” too many times. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound:  Joe Biden  Joe Biden  Joe Biden  Joe Biden  Joe Biden  Joe Biden . Wait for it:

Joe Biden is a bozo!

Rats, it’s just not satisfying me. Maybe I need a voodoo doll.