Nomad Dog Hallucidreams

I wrote most of what follows much earlier today. But the day fractured into pieces and went in different directions. And so did I. I went to church to meet a man who refurbishes parking lots. I walked Bob. Friends came to retrieve a twin bed and chat a bit in the process (and they brought a sausage role and a piece of lemon cake). I had coffee with my sister-in-law. I spent much of my afternoon in a thought-coma, one of those unusual emotional states in which consciousness chooses to rest while thoughts choose to replay themselves in different iterations. And a little late-afternoon dreaming took place, including serious plans to ride from New York to California clinging to the top of a van that is much higher in the back than the front. There was beer in that dream, too, but the cans were empty. But here it is, 4:42 p.m. and my early morning blog has morphed into an older and decrepit version of its younger and more agile self. To be honest, though, the blog never was really agile. It willingly contorted itself into uncomfortable tangles of flesh, cartilage, and brittle bone fragments before springing itself into its original, inflexible shape.

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Lately, I have had several extremely short flashes of “memory” that I can’t quite place. These recollections are very brief but quite clear; but they arise from a hazy fog and they disappear into the same hazy fog. One of these incidents involved a friend who lives in Kansas now. The reminiscence included an image of her bright yellow car and a comment about her husband’s love of a fish dish. I remember having a conversation with someone else about making the fish for him, so that may have triggered the memory. But it wasn’t a memory. It must have been a snippet from a dream. Many other such snippets have been flooding my mind lately. The visions are so clear I would swear they are memories, but circumstances are such that they cannot be memories; they are dreamflashes. I will claim that word as mine, although I know for a fact that it has been used by an ink manufacturer to name one of its lines of inks. That’s too bad. Just when I think I have a neologism of my own, I discover someone else has stolen it from me, apparently in my sleep.

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Bob is going to Connecticut. Apparently, the Animal Welfare League here has a relationship with a rescue outfit in New England; that organization will take Bob up there for adoption. I am told the demand for larger dogs, like Bob, is much greater in that part of the country than around here. No idea why. At any rate, I take Bob to see a vet on Tuesday, then on Wednesday I will take him to the Animal Welfare League facility, where he will spend the night. They will bathe him and get him prepared for departure on Thursday morning about 3:30 a.m. to North Little Rock.; the transport rescue-outfitted RV will leave North Little Rock about 5:30 a.m. and will drive straight through to Connecticut. People tell me the organization taking Bob is extremely good to the animals under their care. So, there it is, the culmination of Life with Bob.

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Years ago, my wife and I became enamored with a Showtime series called Homeland.  Despite the fact that it seemed more than a little biased (downright bigoted from time to time) against Muslims and the Middle East in general, it was an interesting action thriller series, full of espionage and gratuitous violence, sex, and other audience magnets. We watched only as long as our free Showtime offer lasted.

I took advantage of a free Hulu offer so I could watch Nomadland. I was surprised to see that Homeland, from start to finish (I guess) was available. I tried to figure out how long we had watched it before, so I could enter the series at the appropriate time. Couldn’t do it. I finally started watching at Season 3. I had not seen (or did not remember seeing) what I saw, but I decided to stop looking and just watch. What I saw was not nearly as intriguing as I remember. I rather doubt I’ll continue watching. But one never knows, does one?

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This morning’s walk with Bob was very chilly, but productive. Bob enjoyed dragging me up the hill across the street. I assume his wiggling stump of a tail indicated enjoyment. The experience was not as wonderful for me. I have a sore throat that’s getting more sore as I type and a slight headache whose intensity seems to be gradually increasing. Walking Bob caused me to be out of breath much sooner than normal. And I have the sniffles. I am awash in niggling complaints that really do not merit mention, but my fingers are on the keyboard, so it’s like I hardly have a choice but to spill drivel over my little portion of the internet.

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Last night, after washing an especially large load of clothes, I discovered that the dryer was not producing heat. This morning, I’m running it again, on the off chance that the Universe gave the dryer a little time off for rest and recuperation. I decided to give it another thirty minutes to see how things stand. I checked again; no heat at all. So, either I’ll have to get the dryer repaired or buy another one. Sometime last year, before my wife got sick, she located the original receipt for the dryer; we bought it more than thirty years ago. Even if I have to replace it, it has been an utterly reliable workhorse until now. But I hope it can be repaired. I hate replacing equipment when the problem may be just an inexpensive part.

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Friends came to retrieve the twin bed from the master bedroom this morning, so I should be able to get the monstrously heavy queen size bed reconstructed in the not-too-distant future. First, I need to move all the “stuff” I’ve allowed to pile up on the big bed frame in the garage. Then, I’ll need to clean up the master bedroom. Finally, I’ll need to get some big, strong-like-bull people to help with the process. It’s a four-person endeavor. It will happen soon.

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Last night, I thawed ground pork, a pork loin, and a link of hot Italian sausage. I’ve not felt even remotely interested in cooking any of them today, so they languish in the refrigerator, wondering about their fate. I still have no interest in cooking them; or anything. But I am getting a little hungry. I suppose I could go pick up a burger, but that would involve working to get food in which I have no interest. I could order a pizza for delivery, but that would mean spending an enormous amount of money on food that’s worth a quarter as much. Or I could just fast for a while this evening and watch my excess pounds slide off like butter cascading from a hot butter-filled skillet turned sideways. There are other options, of course. But none of them hold much appeal. I’m in the mood for something else, but I don’t know what. Hell, it will come to me. Or I’ll go to it.

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I could have bought a dryer today. Or I could have attempted to figure out whether my dryer is repairable by someone with below average appliance repair skills. Or I could have taken a load of laundry to dry at some out-of-the-way washeteria. But where are they? I’ll look another day, maybe. I know of one place; it’s next to a bar. It’s about eleven miles from here. My sister-in-law has a dryer, though, and she has agreed to let me use it. Last night’s clothes, though, are dry now. More or less.

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I’ll probably never read this blog post again. And I won’t be alone.