Posted tagged ‘dog drawing’

What Little Dog Don’t Like (Flash Friday 55)

June 21, 2013

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What Little Dog Don’t Like

“Top Dog” sound good when you’re jes’ small,
but, Little Dog, he don’t like to fall.
Don’t like to tumble, fumble, spill,
(better stay humble, low and still.)

But stand at base, you bear the weight,
and, Little Dog–he don’t like that fate.
What he also hate are stupid clothes-
Grrr-grrr ribbons, grrr-grrr bows.

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55 for the inimitable G-Man, if you don’t count ever single grrr as a separate word.  (And you better not, growl!)

I am also daring to post this as a set of really profound thoughts for a Real Toads prompt with Heretomost.  They are very profound thoughts for Little Dog.

All rights to the drawing, as of all materials on this blog, (except where specifically excepted), belong to me.  Please, in other words, do not reproduce without permission.  Thanks!

Getting Older (As Mom)

August 16, 2011

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Working on Lappup…errr…

November 5, 2010

Working with....Lappup

Nanowrimo – Morning Update – What next?

November 4, 2010

 

Pearl More Enthusiastic Than I am

I’m past 10,000 words and still hoping that my unconscious will supply a story line –you know, one of those things with beginning, middle, and end.  As it is, scenes shift, and something happens inbetween the shifts (the unwritten part), but little in the scenes themselves.  Is it all going to be background?  Random moods?

Granted, my focus has been very mixed.   I just have to hope that my unconscious works best when no one (i.e. me) is watching it too closely.

I don’t truly believe that this is the way interesting novels are written.   I’m a planner.  But then I tell myself to just try.    What do I have to lose?  Why not?  Who cares?   What the F?   Etc. etc. etc.

I’m concerned that all these questions are really a cover for….what’s next?

Seasons Collide – The Clogged Gears of the Organizationally Blobby

October 8, 2010

 

Pearl luckily doesn't mind "C" things.

 

Blog plus job plus dog, and even adding in yoga, can make you feel a bit of a blob sometimes–not a physical blob so much as an organizational blob.  (“S” could probably substitute for the first letter of that last word.)

It’s not a lack of external neatness; it’s what’s behind the external neatness — i.e.  clutter, chaos, catastrophe (looming).  Enough “C” things that your Consciousness begins to feel like a Computer Clogged with Cookies (Commercial); a Closet Clotted with Clothes (Crumpled);  a Cupboard Clustered With Cups (Chipped).

This kind of Clutter becomes especially Complex as seasons Change, and one set of expectations Collides with another.  (All that summer Cotton; all that autumn….um….non-Cotton.)

One approach–don’t Care so much.

But wait–you’ve already tried that one.  And even though you say you don’t Care–so much–you’re getting really tired of looking for that paper, that sweater, that thought–

Alternative approach–Care a little more.  Take the time to make more time.

Do a little less of all the frenetic, what-you-tell-yourself-is-productive, stuff and a little more of the slow, steady, sorting, supportive stuff, i.e. Clear the decks.

P.S. But don’t spend too long setting up systems you’ll maintain.  (I think you know why.)

Looking For Cheer (With a Sick Dog)

May 19, 2010

Sick Dog

I was ready tonight to write about the wonderful reserve of the old-time British hero, Horatio Hornblower (created by C.S. Forester);  this is a character that knows how to pack a great deal of meaning into a very few words; who is masterful at mastering his feelings, careful to mask and make do with discontent, sadness, anxiety.   But I come home from work to find my very old dog suddenly immeasurably older.   Something is very wrong with her, and suddenly reserve feels immediately like a much less interesting quality to me.

When your old beloved dog is sick, you really are not looking for a friend to say, crisply, “hard luck.”

Certain types of cheerfulness are even worse than the crispness of a stiff upper lip.  For example, when you are anxious or grim, it’s not always helpful to have someone tell you, brusquely, to cheer up, or to not give up hope yet.

Maybe it’s just me.  Perhaps I am of an argumentative nature.  (Actually, there’s probably no “perhaps” about that.)  But, when someone tells me cheerfully not to give up hope, I want to respond tearfully, (i) that hope is already far gone, and (ii) just leave me alone.

I find that instead what helps when I am truly anxious or upset is some kind of commiseration–an echoing or mirroring of the upset feelings.  Yes, I know this sounds  like wallowing–or, even worse, getting your friends to wallow with you–but instead of strengthening bad feelings, this kind of commiseration seems to give a stepping stone for getting out of them.   This could be my peculiarly argumentative nature.  All I know is that if I am upset, and someone agrees that my situation is pretty awful, my kneejerk impulse is to say that it’s not so bad, and to actually feel some kind of  hope.   (It’s as if the sympathy gives me enough strength to become my own comforter.)

In a similar play of opposites, many look for someone to take care of them–financially, emotionally, physically–while the being that most readily captures their heart is one that they take care of.

A dog.

Here’s hoping.

“Marching Orders” From My Dog Pearl

March 8, 2010

Pearl Being Exuberant

T.S. Eliot said that April is the cruelest month.  I tend to think it’s March.

March is a teaser.  You step out in the mornings into air that feels suddenly, caressingly, warm.  Your heart lifts.   Then, after maybe a minute,  you become aware of a damp undercurrent.   You realize, unless you manage to collide with an angle of absolutely direct sunlight, that the caress was like the touch of a best-selling vampire wearing gloves.   All it truly is, is warmer than it’s been.

It’s dark when you get out of the subway after work–still dark.   Your eyes fixate on the big hard mounds of extremely gritty snow in the middle or on the edges of certain pubic spaces.

You just know it’s going to start raining soon (probably on the weekend.)   You imagine big pools of water collecting at street corners,  pools so murky that people will risk injury by veering taxi cab rather than get close to them, even people who have spent monsoon seasons in Calcutta.

You tell yourself that this is March, predictably unpredictable, that Spring really is coming.  But, since you are stuck inside for the nice parts of the day, it’s hard to feel good.  In fact, you feel pretty lousy.

At times like this, I tell myself that I should emulate the one great sage I know, that is, my dog Pearl.

Pearl is a very old dog.   She seems, unfortunately, to be going blind.  She sees my shape moving from living room into kitchen with absolute clarity.   But once she tracks me into the kitchen, she can’t always tell if I’m holding a treat in my hand or if I’ve dropped it in front of her, or if I have dropped it in front of her, where exactly.  On evening walks, she’ll almost bump into things (like park benches) or  halt in sudden fear or disorientation.

That part is pretty sad.

Most of the time Pearl is beyond sedentary.  (Sedentary derives from the word “to sit”;  Pearl doesn’t bother with sitting; she’s generally stretched out flat.)    But there are moments, on a nearly daily basis, that still  bring out a joyful puppydom.    These often follow that difficult evening walk.   There is a stretch of carpeting in  my building’s hallway, between elevator and my apartment door,  that she has always found to be an irresistible running track—the carpet is firm,  and at that point in the walk, she’s free–of leash, of whatever “business” took her outside, of any further duties for that day.

She goes, to put it mildly, bananas—running back and forth, circling, grinning a weird canine side grin.   She will run until she’s almost choking, and then (she’s not the smartest creature in the world),  run a little more.

What Pearl seems to understand is that new energy comes from the expenditure of energy,  new joy from old joy, from jumping into joy, and  that joy doesn’t need to be saved up, it just needs to be savored.

Some might say I’m anthropomorphizing.  Some might say that I’m not, that what Pearl does is simply easier for a dog.   Either view seems to offer me something palpable:   to find exuberance, be exuberant (even about the routine, the mundane,  especially about the routine, the mundane);   to get through March, march right on through it.

Of course, once Pearl is back in the apartment, she usually collapses again.  (After one more quick exploration of the kitchen.)

That part sounds good too.

PS – for a poem about Pearl’s exuberance, check out this.