Slice of My Life

While my pups were picked up 7 a.m. for a 12 mile run up on the mountain, I took my time with a breakfast of 2 fried eggs (rare for me) with Swiss Chard picked yesterday evening from the Community Garden, enhanced with roasted green Hatch chile peppers. I must admit, more protein with less carbs, no matter how complex, help with irrational pangs of hunger.

Home alone for a whole morning felt strange and has become rare since I brought my Isabella-girl back to my den, rescued (who are we kidding?) from the shelter 4 years ago to the month. Our pack since expanded with the additions of Sumo, a Yorkie/Poodle/Maltese and an escape artist, and Saemi. the Pretty Kitty. (I ought to mention the chatty white Parakeets that moved on. Yin died  prematurely from a swollen brain and Yang preferred the company of a male with whom she recreated herself many times over in the shortest of time.)

So home alone, I listened to soulful music by Leonhard Cohen (I'm Your Man) and Otis Redding (Satisfaction) and busied myself with the homely activity of mending what needed fixing from a pile that had been sitting and waiting for my attention for way too long.

By lunch time my pups were not yet back, so I fixed myself a whole wheat pancake with a topping of my own home made applesauce and whole milk yogurt followed by a strong cup of black coffee with added cinnamon, a sprinkle of ginger and vanilla, Jeff Bridges' Fallin' and Flyin' filled the air and made my muscles twitch. I love that song. It is so not my normal listening style. Not since the early nineties when I gave up on an obsession of a few years with Country Western dancing. Eventually I had to accept that I would never fit in to a Country Western crowd and that that was o.k.. (I ought to mention that the gay Country Western and Salsa crowd in San Francisco did make me feel at home, because it was such so wild and diverse, lively and over the top scene, hilarious and such fun.)

When my pups returned they were covered in something, I was afraid shit like last time, but it may just have been underbrush, but all over, entangled and it took me two hours to get them acceptable again for indoor living. So worth it though. Now they are, still damp, conked out on the couch, pooped, but looking very fluffy, cute and extremely relaxed. Jeff's Brand New Angel smooths out whatever wrinkles may still linger in my soul - for at least this very moment.

The day concluded with an impromptu purchase, a gorgeous, long haired, multi-colored, eco certified sheepskin, the best and most luxurious protective cover for my new sofa I can imagine. Currently both of my pups seem to kinda blend in with the fur, Sumo on his back barely distinguishable. Will try for a shot in  tomorrow morning's natural light.

I luxuriated in the feel of the fur draped over my arm rather then stuffed inside a bag,  on our way back home. But a detour beckoned and we entered a bookstore to listen in on a poet's rant, a performance, about our drug culture. More then his words I admired his body language. The guy was so centered with a pleasing economy of movement that exuded a strange appeal on me. What a rich day it has been. Life can be good in a calm kinda way.