Looking back over the trail of sour bubbles, obvious themes emerge: Society, Politics, Media, The Interweb. Important topics that affect and reflect us. Topics I find filled with dire signs and portents, chill winds carrying a hint of smoke that makes my neck hairs stand up straight.
For example, Vin Scully is retiring. If that’s not a sign of the coming apocalypse, I don’t know what one is. Adding insult, my Minnesota Twins are having a bad season of truly biblical proportions.
So a strange sour silly summer…
Recent careful analysis of the early images from Pluto have turned up results that are astonishing and yet, perhaps, not surprising:
This explains a great deal…
Last time I gave you the final chapter in the Story of Samantha — the repose of her ashes. Two years ago, I gave you an early chapter, the Tale of the Perfect Day (in part, a tale of a tail). This time, somewhat like a (long-delayed) wake, I’m going to share some random memories from The Life of Sam.
Actually, she was Samantha II. The first Samantha was a puppy I shared with a roommate. That Sam died very young when she lost in an attempt to take down a passing bus. My roommate, who’d left the gate open, was utterly devastated. We buried her beneath a stand of Joshua trees far out in the Mojave Desert.
The puppy, that is; not my roommate.
The autumn leaves that litter the trail crunch beneath my feet, and dozens of flying insects — grasshoppers I think — flee the oncoming giant tromping through their domain. The late morning sky is a lovely cerulean broken only by lonely scattered cloud wisps. The October air is crisp — like a chilled white wine — dry, bracing, invigorating. I am given a perfect fall day to accomplish my task.
The trees that surround me, mostly oak and linden, a few scattered elms, give way to pines. Now the trail is covered in long pine needles and pine cones. Large birds — falcons perhaps — watch my passing with avian alarm. A brave one flies directly overhead to get a closer look at the encroaching human.
I’m seeking the “Cathedral of Pines,” the place I’ve chosen for Sam’s final rest.
Rosie The Dog
I cried a bit after she was gone. I didn’t expect that. I didn’t expect to miss her at all, let alone so intensely. The place seems much emptier than it did four days ago. You wouldn’t think a long weekend would be enough to form such a strong bond.
But dogs are simpler than people and much more honest and open. You always know how a dog feels about you, and the dog is never two-faced or a hypocrite. And I think Rosie brought me back to Samantha (I even called her “Sam” a couple of times).
Monday night I found myself wandering aimlessly around a place that seemed too empty.
I woke early to the sound of thunder this morning. It was hot enough earlier in the week to force me back to enclosed air conditioning. Friday I realized it had cooled off enough to open the windows again. I very much prefer breezes blowing through my place. The weather witches mis-predicted rain Friday and Saturday, but got it right Sunday morning.
I lay in bed sleepily thinking how much I enjoy the sound of rain and thunder. That thought was immediately followed by the realization that I needed to wake up and go close some windows! As the rain continued, I began to wonder if the Twins game today would be rained out, but now it’s just partly cloudy, so no problem.
I thundered yesterday, but on Sundays I try to be sunny (or just partly cloudy).
There is such a thing as a shaggy dog story. It’s a story that winds on for as long as the teller can spin it. Eventually, as the audience gets ever more restless, the “joke” ends with the most banal and trivial of non-punchlines. The longer the telling, the more pointless must be the punchline.
Old dogs notoriously can’t be taught new tricks, but perhaps that’s because they’ve learned the tricks they care to learn and aren’t interested in jumping through new hoops.
This little tale is not a shaggy dog story, but about wise old dogs…
Today’s date, 10/11/12, is one of those dates that’s numerically fun. (For my European friends, I guess it was yesterday.) And, of course, in one month and one day, we’ll have the last “golden date” of this century, 12/12/12.
But for me, October 11th is a sad day, a day of mourning. Eight years ago today, in 2004, my dog—who brought me as close as I have ever come to having my own child—took her last breath. Her name was Samantha; she was only ten.
That she died a couple of years after we moved into a new place I’d bought in part to provide an ideal home for her was tough. That she died a bit over a year after my divorce was final was really tough. That she died only months after the first time my job at The Company was eliminated and I had found a new position two days before my end date was just icing on a shit cake.
Today I choose to commemorate her passing by writing about the perfect day.