Scheduled an at-home euthanasia service for Watson L. Dog this Friday afternoon. He doesn't want to eat, barely even wants to bite my face. 

Last night I opened the front door and he laid there staring out through the security screen for a while. Gave me an idea for a puppy porch. Kind of an Arizona room but for the front of the house so the dogs can go outside and see what's going on. That'll keep away them pesky gophers.

It's not really a new idea; people have outside spaces like that for indoor cats. So they can kind of pretend they're outside without the risks.

I was interrupted in my writing by some work. Returning now, on my lunch break, to see what I was rambling about earlier today. 

This is why writing is always referred to in the present tense. There could be universes formed and created in those blank spaces between words and paragraphs.

Oh that's right I was sad about my dog. I was wearing my grief like a snuggie, or its knock-off cousin the slanket. 

My poor pup felt cold last night so I covered him up with a blanket. Marceline went over and slept next to him.

Dog body temperatures are higher than a human's. Normally.

At least he saw the ocean. He did love the ocean. 

Was I going to practice folding time in half today? Or was that tomorrow? Yes it's tomorrow, or 30 years from now really. 

I wonder if he'll live until Friday. He's a stubborn boy. 

I prefer running around barefoot but slippers seem like a good idea. Why filthy up my feet in between my shower and going to bed. Why?

I'll add "fluffy Croc slippers" to my Christmas list. In case I need to run outside for some reason. With dogs that's always a concern, so these things need to be sturdy. Also the puppies love chewing on my existing, non-fluffy Crocs. They've survived Watson's chewing and now the puppy teeth. Mostly survived. Watson did get through one of the straps and I've removed them. 

Today I forgot the pen I keep in my collar. I'll have to keep a little notebook too. That's what I used to do; jot down the fragments of thought, plant them, and see if they sprout. Or rather, I see if they burrow deeper down, like plump little moles, snuffling through the darkness and rooting up hidden revelations and treasured memories. Juicy earthworms of ideas, and other mythological creature metaphors for inspiration. Whatever else moles eat. Ifrit? Pegasusses? (Do not tell me that isn't the plural of Pegasus; I won't hear it.)

Is it the music? Is it the sadness? Is it the not scrolling through my cell phone so much? All of these things? Or maybe...all five?

Future thoughts: The only octopus I ever met (a giant Pacific I fed in Portland) is probably dead. My fingers still smell a tiny bit like the garlic cloves I used to cook pinto beans in the ancient crock pot that Kelly's mom gave us. It was her grandmother's, and it's bad-ass. Allegedly you can roast a whole chicken in the thing because it gets that hot. Probably constructed of ancient metals and legendary ceramics. The rubber probably came from a tree. 

Kelly didn't go for the burying Watson in the yard idea. Or the ossuary. Or the voodoo shrine to summon the elder gods. I assured her they probably wouldn't even show up, the way 2020 is going. They'll gaze upon us from their abyss, see how things are going, and be like "Naw, you good fam."

I'll nod courteously in undiscovered directions, just in case.