dogs, cats, and other hail storms

Maybe this is what it's like to get old. You just don't care. Certain hesitations and worry over social etiquette, social status, social posturing fall away. Next I'll start farting loudly in other people's homes. Leaving this place with a collage of beautiful friends behind us is incredibly difficult. In addition, I'm proud to say that as I look behind me, over the 13 years here, there is no need to scurry quickly out of range of any towering infernos where the bridges used to be. I'm good. I'm just saying that on a particular level, there's a freedom of movement I can now access.

Like when my landlord brought a young couple through our house. The third such event we've endured. Nowhere near the trauma of our last move and our last landlord, but still. It's a big fat pain in the arse. And that's even before we talk about the fact that after they left, they didn't lock the back door which doesn't latch properly and opened wide leaving my house unattended and my already freaked out indoor-only cat to go explore the neighborhood, which in turn created an stressed out mama in Braxton Hicks and a hysterical little boy who was convinced his pet was lost forever. But, hey, that's another story, right?

The people coming to look at our place, as I raced off to an appointment had at this point only committed the crime of inconveniencing me somewhat and casting doubts on the future care of my lavender bushes. They were 30 minutes early and toted along with them a little mop of a dog. Without making full eye contact, I blurt, “That dog isn't coming inside, is it?” Oh. Did I say that? Um. What I think I meant was, “Oohhhhh! Loooooook. What a sweet puppyyyyyyy! Hi little fella! Hi there! What's your name?”

Moving is also like short hand, then. Saves you words.