July 27, 2018

the crucible of advent

I said this back in 2012, waiting to hear that Obama secured the presidency from Romney:

"Hope is an interesting thing ... once you strip away the irrational desire for outside forces of any type to intervene and accept your own inability to influence an outcome, you're left with raw want, suspended in time and waiting for information that will quench it. Yet such a simple thing can clench your heart and commandeer your mind. This night has been a long time coming ...."


That is how I feel right now, because it's 6:58 a.m. and I've never live-blogged before (okay, this doesn't count, but it's as close as I've come), but my hands are shaking because I can't call to find out about would-be-Molly until 10:30, when the shelter opens, and I have to find something to do with this energy because the situation has rendered me manic as shit.

I snapped awake while ago and thought, "Molly!"

My coffee is cinnamon bun flavored this morning.  I'm having oatmeal for breakfast.  Is that the sort of thing people live-blog?  Inane details?  The oatmeal is delicious.  I eat it raw with cold milk, except it's Quaker Instant so it's mostly cooked already and doesn't count as a really stupid thing to do.

8:31 a.m.:  I've finished doing tasks in my dragon game, which has an event going right now that requires attention to timing.  I'm all set until this afternoon.  So now ... what to do?  I'm drowsy in spite of the coffee (sonofabitch, I didn't sleep so well ... I wonder why).  Going to try to go back to bed for a little while.

10:04 a.m.:  I slept.  Wonders never cease.  Holy shit, only twenty-six more minutes until I can call.  I'm going to shower.  That will help the time pass.

10:21 a.m.:  I'm sitting on the sofa with my laptop and my phone.  Tick, tick, tick.  If they say she's still there and needs a forever home (I keep thinking fur-ever home but that's the kind of thing people would put on saccharine Facebook graphics and I am better than that - begone, foul thought) - anyway, if they say she's still there, I'm trying to decide how to prevent myself from going and grabbing P.J. and telling her to clock out and inform her boss she just came down with twenty-four-hour gonorrhea or something, and push her into the car to go to the mountains right nao.

Maybe it would be wiser to ask for a hold.  I've heard of holds.  Then we could go to the fair tomorrow with a hold and meet her and we'd be right there at the pet store to buy puppy pads and puppy food (I wonder what she eats?) and about four hundred dollars worth of unneeded merchandise.  And a collar.  And we could get one of those engraved tags they sell at the register.  Two of them.  Rose and Molly.  Rosey-boo and Molly-dog.

Fucking hell, I'm mental right now.  I need more coffee.  This is vital.

10:28 a.m.:  It's time to call.  What if somebody already adopted her?  What if they say she's gone?  Will I start crying on the phone?  Fuck.  Fuck fuck fuck.

It's time.  I have to call them now.

Shit, where did I put the phone number?

10:32 a.m.:   She actually had to put me on hold and go to the back to check.  I'm breathing.  I'm breathing.  What was that yoga shit they were saying?  Namaste?  Not "ohm" ... that's Buddhism.  I'll just keep breathing.

10:34 a.m.:  I'm still on hold.  That means that she had to go see if somebody took her out for a walk or maybe to the vet for a shot, find somebody else who knows why she isn't in her pen.  That's what it means.  Yeah.

10:39 a.m.:  Okay.  I couldn't type for a moment.  She, um, gone.  Already adopted.  I think I bit a hole through my bottom lip while I listened to her say "they get gone pretty fast" and then talk for way too many seconds about three other six-month-old terrier mixes that they just brought in that aren't shepherd mixes and look nothing like each other.  Somehow I got through the rest of the conversation in a civil manner.

I want to delete this whole post and the entire previous post because it's embarrassing.  You would think I'd learn not to get attached to shit.  To animals, and people.  Ohm, my ass.  I won't learn.  I know myself.

This isn't 2012.  It's 2016.  When P.J. had to tell me Trump was our president.  We sat up the rest of the night and cried.  I have to go up the stairs again now and tell her about Molly, just like last night with the Westie.  Did I say bamboo sticks under my fingernails?  More like The Rack.  She felt it, too.

But first, I have to get a hand towel from the kitchen and wipe the tears off this keyboard.  Water isn't good for a laptop.

2 comments:

  1. I am so sorry! My heart goes out to you and PJ. I'm glad you posted this. I was with you all the way. Your writing has tremendous truth and some things we experience is just searing. This is one of those times.
    I'll stop now. Mona

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    Replies
    1. Some things pave the way for others (and thank you!) ... will write about it in the morning. For right now, she's snoring loudly, for a puppy. :)

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