My Thoughts and How I Spit Them Out

If you have been following along on the latest blog tour you have probably been as equally fascinated as I in regards to the unique methods of some of the best writers in the Petosphere. Always eager to glean as much knowledge as I can from my blogging heroes, I have been reading every entry I find. As if I will somehow discover the map to their brilliance and be able to follow it myself. Alas, it does not work that way. Though learning from the experiences of others is useful, the only substantial thing I have found is that I will have to make my own trail, bushwhacking and dodging flying monkeys as I go.

Once I finished pouting over the unfairness of it all, I was honoured by an invitation from Kol’s Notes to join the tour myself. It took me a week to realize this meant I could no longer be a bystander, watching the parade and hoping to snag a piece of tossed candy. Suddenly, I had to climb on to a float and give out my own bon bons.

The thought was daunting, nay, paralyzing. What do I have to offer with my meager attempts at stringing words together? One would think after publishing 873 posts I would have more to contribute. I am ashamed to say, my writing process – if I even have enough hubris to call it that – is not the structured I’d like it to be. It’s not even a process, more of a thing I do when I have a few minutes or when there is a deadline looming. However, if I can help someone else then I will air my humiliating secrets. Perhaps you can learn something from my laziness, or at least feel better about your own valiant efforts.

How I manage to spit words out, all of your questions answered here, or something:

Question #1: What are you working on?

This is an excellent question. Unfortunately, I have a less than stellar answer. At least it is short?

Nothing. That is to say, nothing other than putting words on the page. There is no larger project, no higher goal, than the simple act of writing itself. I do have hope that some larger scheme will inspire me if I keep on with it. Thus far, all I do is trudge away at it, putting in my 100 words, trying not to worry about anything else.

I am not sure that I ever had a prime directive for this space. The idea was to keep a record, to connect with others, and to seek solace in personal reflection. Writing things down made me feel better about them.

wpid-wp-1408531052243.jpegOne thing I know for sure is that I am happier when I am writing. I am forced to acknowledge the distinct differences in my outlook on life when I compare the weeks I let myself slide and the weeks I make myself to keep on. Even if nothing comes of it, this act brings me joy. For that reason alone I must continue. My sanity is worth it.

Question #2: Why do you write what you do?

These days I write what I am thinking about. Sometimes it is something that happened to me, sometimes it is something I read, and sometimes it is something else entirely. I tend to spew whatever is most sticking in my mind. Often it relates to life with Shiva, but not always.

I started blogging as early as 2000, in the early days when Livejournal was still cool and required a special invitation. Given my propensity to get bored with a project after its early stages, I opened many LJ accounts and then abandoned them all one by one. When Blogger was a thing, I started an account there, and then left that behind too. The same with several attempts at WordPress. It was all too much like work, too much like journaling, and I never had a sense of community. For the most part, I kept my writing attempts to a private notebook.

Pet blogging was quite different. Instead of a chore, it was fun to share pictures and chat about the silly things my dog did. It was also much easier to connect with others. While I was always shy to comment on other personal blogs, I felt less vulnerable leaving a cheerful note about another blogger’s dog or cat. The more I commented, the more I got to know others in the community and the more I read, the more I wanted to share my own stories.

I suppose this is my long-winded way of saying I write about my dog because it is fun and because it has led to other positive opportunities. It has also allowed me to experiment with other forms of writing in a way I feel comfortable. Shiva remains my main inspiration but she is no longer the only source. I am still trying to figure out how they all can be combined.

Question #3: How does your writing process work?

Um… Writing process? You mean where I sit down and type letters on the screen? Is there supposed to be more to it than that?

Perhaps it will be easiest if I follow the lead set by Kol’s Notes and break it into steps.

Step the first: Inspiration

I go for a walk. Yep. That’s it. Away from distractions, with only Shiva to tear me from my thoughts, walking is crucial for the idea process. The only trouble with this lies in the fact I never have a way to write anything down. I have to rely on my memory to retain all of the genius sentences I come up with during my perambulations. I should probably start carrying a notebook but I have enough in my pockets, what with poop bags and treats and keys.


I do find Evernote is a fantastic program for keeping track of thoughts. Of course, I have to have my phone with me to take advantage of this application. Which I never do during my chief idea-seeking wanderings.

I never said I knew what I was doing.

Step the second: Preparation

Okay, so, this isn’t really a step since I don’t do much planning in advance. There have been times where I have needed to do a bit of research. Often I utilize the skills I developed while writing history papers and research while I go. This isn’t ideal. I don’t recommend it.

wpid-wp-1408531003709.jpegWhile Jodi of Kol’s Notes recommends the Italian countryside, I find the hills and valleys of Canada have just as much to offer. Why travel when you can get a lovely burst of creativity at home? The Okanagan Valley is my new favourite destination and I highly recommend a little Therapy in advance of your next writing experiment. It did wonders for me.

Step the third: Execution

I sit down and start typing. Sometimes quickly, sometimes excruciatingly slow. Sometimes on my blue chair, sometimes on a camping chair, sometimes on the floor. I always sit and I always type.

My preferred method is to write by hand with a pen and paper. It feels more natural and is closer to the practice of my childhood. Typing is faster, however, and there is no way I will bother to type something I have written by hand. Is there a computer program out there that automatically does this? You’d think there would be.

The time of day changes. I used to write in the mornings before going to work. It is still my best time of day. My current schedule does not allow it, unless I am willing to get up earlier than five-thirty, which I am not, at the moment.

These days I write at night, shortly after Shiva and I return from our walk. This way the ideas are still gurgling. Unfortunately, this timing can also lead to bitter diatribes and emotional rants, as I haven’t given myself the chance to digest anything before putting it out there. What can you do?


Step the fourth: Editing

I tend to edit as I go, an arresting and somewhat inhibiting habit, but it works well for me. It is hard for me to write a sentence without re-thinking every word. Reading a troublesome line out loud helps me figure it out before moving on.

Before I hit publish, I try to read through every post at least once. Often I forget in my elation at finishing and find myself reading through and making changes after the article has already gone live. Oops.

Editing is actually my favourite part. I love chopping words and fixing errors in punctuation. It’s the same feeling I get when I throw out old things around the house; it can be liberating and almost always makes the post better. I rarely make the time to do it in any serious fashion. Something else I need to work on.

So yeah… That’s the insight into my, er, writerly process.

You are wowed, aren’t you? I thought so.

According to the rules of the Official Tour, I am now to tag several other bloggers and make them divulge all of their juicy secrets.

Lauranne of 25 Castles on 25 Clouds is officially up. I bet she will have some terrific advice for everyone. If not, she can at least recommend some good wine.

I am also nominating Ashley of The Accidental Olympian because she needs to write more and may as well do this. Her taste in beverage I am sure is also inspirational.

And as my final nomination I choose Kelly of Tails of Insanity. I can’t speak for her beverage choices, she probably drinks Diet Coke while she blogs, but she is another who needs to write more often. Hopefully this will be the commitment she needs.

If you made it to the end of this very long-winded beast, you have my congratulations. I hope you found something that helped you. If nothing else, you now know an excellent wine to try.

TC is a Jerkwad, Part 2

So we all know my cat, The Cat (TC), is a bit of an ass. Not just a bit, actually. Around these parts, he is known as a jerkwad. It’s kind of his second nickname.

wpid-wp-1408413624193.jpegI know. He looks so cute and innocent. It is an act, all designed to fool those of the outside word into thinking he is nothing but a fuzzy-faced angel. I admit, even I am fooled sometimes. He’ll walk up to me, all quiet mews and low purrs, rub against my legs, make me think he might let me touch him, and then wham! I’ve got a cat tooth stuck in my thumb.

Of course, we all know his story. We all know I am the evil interloper who dared infiltrate his quiet abode, the horrid female who dared intervene in the spoiled thing he had going with my PH. What he won’t tell you is that he met me as a teeny kitten, that I have been this dark presence in his life since he was barely two months old. Ten years later, you’d think he’d be over it.

But I digress. The purpose of this post is not to question his sinister motivations. It is to recount his latest acts of jerkwadiness.

1. The squalling has gotten to a new low. He squawks at me for everything these days, to refill the water bowl I filled ten minutes ago, to top up the over-loaded dish of cat food, to give him treats, to lift up the foot rest of the Lazy Boy, to give him more treats, to open the bathroom door so he can stare at me while I shower, to watch him clean himself, and – most often – to go outside. I like to think I have increased my level of patience since adopting Shiva, but there is only so much guttural meowing a human can take. I am tempted to record it for you so you can sympathise with my pain. Rest assured, I like you too much to put you through that.


2. HIs fur. I know, it isn’t his fault he has too much fluff. That’s just genetics. However, it is his fault when he chooses to brush it all over the bottoms of my pants hanging in the closet. I adore finding gobs of sticky orange fuzz all over my cuffs before getting dressed for work in the morning. That must be what he thinks. Either that or he is a jerkwad, you decide. (Please note, he doesn’t do this to my PH’s pants.)

3. He is increasingly bold with Shiva. Not that she does anything to stop him. In the span of an hour he managed to trap her in the bathroom – again – and then had the guts to eat a piece of her kibble out of her bowl while she was eating from the other side! What cat does this? Clearly he is far too confident. Someone needs to take control and apparently it isn’t going to be the dog.

4. He has a pathological obsession with my shoes that is sinking to new levels. No one needs to see that Cat, no one.

5. He destroyed the frame of the boot room door. For no reason. Just because he could? Maybe because I didn’t let him outside at midnight to meet his pals? Maybe because I care too much about him getting eaten by coyotes? Jerk. Wad.

wpid-wp-1408413633541.jpeg6. As if I need another, right? Yet, it doesn’t end. TC has also taken to begging for food. Every morning when I eat my breakfast, be it cereal, toast, or a piece of fruit, he is right there demanding I give him a bite. Even Shiva has the decency to give me space. She knows the key to begging is laying on her mat, shooting me sidelong glances. The Cat? He shoves his face right in my Cheerios. This isn’t because he is hungry, don’t make that mistake. It isn’t even because he likes oaty o’s. He rarely eats anything, even when I generously attempt to share. He simply thinks he has the right to everything that is mine.

The nerve of such a cat! I tells ya. I had naively thought by his old age he’d be slowing down, maybe even start cuddling, you know, like normal, nice cats. Oh, how wrong I was.

Dog Poetry Sunday – Pollard

It has been a week full of challenges in Shiva’s House of Deluded Dreamers. Broken feet, broken websites, and broken reservations. All three have yet to be mended and the frustration levels are climbing. At least Rescued Insanity is back in action enough for me to share some happy verse with you. I will try to be grateful and enjoy the blessings I have in the moment, however short-lived they may be.

I found today’s selection on a website for children. What a chest full of fun little gems this online space is. I may be pulling from it again in the future. Like kid jokes, there is something all the more endearing about kid poems.

The below story, for it is more of a narration than it is of a poetic entreaty – the best poems are, in my opinion, features two familiar characters: a cat and a dog. They get on in an amusing way and I enjoyed the imagery of the two species singing together. Shiva and TC both vocalize but never together. Now I kind of wish they did.

Happy Sunday!

Music on All Fours, by Josephine Pollard

A Pussy-cat and a Black-and-Tan
Were shut in a room together,
And, after a season of quiet, began
To talk of the change in the weather,
And new spring fashions, and after that
They had a sort of musical chat.
Said Puss: “To me it is quite absurd—
But tastes and opinions vary;
And some have declared that no beast or bird
Can sing like the small canary,—
Who, if it be true as I’ve heard it told,
Is really worth more than its weight in gold!”

Said the Black-and-Tan, with a pensive smile:
“I’ve wanted to call attention
To this bit of scandal for quite a while,
And, if not amiss, to mention
That my daily allowance of bark and whine
Has greatly improved this voice of mine.”
“It has,” said Puss, with a comic grin;
“The words of truth you have spoken;
A name for ourselves we must strive to win
At once, now the ice is broken;
For one or two doses of catnip tea
Have had a wondrous effect on me!

“‘Twas only the other night I strayed
Where a silvery moonbeam slanted,
And gave such a beautiful serenade
You’d have thought the place enchanted.
It roused the neighborhood to a pitch
Of praise, or envy—I can’t tell which.”
Said the Black-and-Tan, “Why shouldn’t we try
To sing a duet together?”
Said the Puss, “I see no reason why
We can’t; and we’ll show them whether
To birds and bipeds alone belong
The gift of singing a pleasing song!”

They sang—and they sang; but oh, my dears!
If you had been anywhere near them,
You’d have shut your eyes and stopped your ears,
And wished that you couldn’t hear them.
‘Twas a brilliant effort, upon my word,
And nearly killed the canary-bird.
The Pussy-cat and the Black-and-Tan
With the music were so delighted,
They will give a concert as soon as they can,
And perhaps we may be invited.
“Bow-wow!” “Miaow!” I’m sorry, you know,
I’ve another engagement—and cannot go!

Market Day

On my way to the farmer’s market I realized how nice it was to walk alone. It isn’t something I do often these days. I almost always have a dog with me, or a husband or friend, or both. True, I do walk home from work on a regular basis but that feels like a commute. I am in a hurry to get to my destination, every block feels like a mile. It is rare for me to wander by myself on a Saturday morning with no particular schedule.

I took my time. Smile at the woman leaving the market with an armful of sunflowers. Chatted with another waiting with her Weimaraner outside.  I maintained this leisure as I entered the crowded building. It was lovely to explore with only myself to please. There was no one to consult, no one for whom I had to wait, and no one to get impatient if I lingered overlong at the cheese counter.

I love sharing my life with my family. There is not a day I am not grateful and I never resent their presence. Yet, every once in a while, I think it is good for me to take off on journeys alone, to remember the other parts of me. If nothing else, it makes going home again even sweeter.

The Cyclone

“Only six people have ever died on this thing,” the words were spoken in earnest. I turned to look at the source, a man in his mid-thirties who most likely enjoyed his Coors Light. He stood behind us in the line and must have taken the look on my face for concern.
He was wrong. It was terror.

“I’m serious,” he said when I raised my eyebrows in question. “In all the years it’s been open only six!”

I wanted to ask him why he thought this would reassure me, instead I turned back around and closed my eyes.

“Less scary than giving a speech,” I muttered to myself. “Way way way less scary than driving a car. I can do this.”

Beside me my PH shook his head, looking amused. He wasn’t frightened at all, of course. Born in a small mountain town, he was used to death-defying feats. Teenage boys without much to do have a lot of experience getting into trouble in one way or another. This was tame in comparison.

I opened my eyes and realized my turn was next.

Three… two… one…


Our garage door is the hardest door in the world to open. I learned this last night as I drove my shoulder into the wood in my fourth attempt at gaining entrance. It wasn’t because I didn’t have a key. The door was unlocked. The handle, however, refused to work the way handles are designed. It either jammed when I jerked it left or spun wide when I twisted it right. It was terrible timing. I’d never needed inside the small, crumbling building more than in that moment. Infuriated and out of patience, I gave the door a kick. Our neighbours happened to be outside on their back porch with a clear view of my emotional weakness. I heard them laugh. It may not have been at me but it may as well have been. I glared at the rotting wood; I’d never felt more useless.

Lunch Post #6

​It was raining, but I ate my lunch outside anyway. Taking advantage of having the grounds of the Rehabilitation ​building to myself, I found a short tree with branches that reached low under which I sat cross-legged. My noon hour respite isn’t long. It isn’t even an hour. I horde every second of personal time I can. The public demands enough of my attention. It is allowed, I am being paid for my efforts and focus.  I refuse to work for free. These thirty minutes every day belong to me.

The mosquitoes tickled my arms and teased my fingers as I turned the pages of my book. A flick of a thumb or a jut of an elbow is enough to frighten them off. I don’t mind their presence. Insects mean summer. Summer means outdoors and soft grass brushing my ankles.

A break feels so much more like a break when it is enjoyed in daylight. Winter would be so much more bearable if there was a way I could be warm enough in the elements. If I have to hunch over my paperback in a crowded cafe or on a seat in the lobby next to a stranger on a cell phone, I may as well stay at my desk. There is no escape in winter. And in the middle of a week day, escape is all that satisfies my appetite.

A story from my childhood

The first time I thought of my appearance as a matter of importance was in fourth grade. I was nine years old and sitting at my desk in Mrs. MacDonald’s classroom. She was one of those teachers fond of arranging students into groups in the belief the stronger students could help those who might be struggling. My desk was nudged into one corner of a square, next to my best friend and facing my next door neighbour. I don’t remember who took up the spot diagonal to me. I suspect he or she doesn’t recall me or the moment I am about to share either.

Matthew was his name, my next door neighbour. It was so common of a name back then I don’t see the point in changing it now. Besides, I haven’t spoken to him in over two decades. We were quasi-friends in that awkward way of preadolescent boys and girls. I’d been inside his house while visiting his older sister, played on his backyard trampoline, and made fun of him as much as he’d made fun of me. I’d had crushes on other boys in school but  never thought about him that way. He was just the kid next door who stole my answers on math tests, sometimes annoying, sometimes funny. I didn’t mind having to share my desk space with him.

On this day we were doing our usual group work. I’d probably finished early, keener that I was, or perhaps I was being kind and offering help to others. As a kid I was shy – not much has changed – and reluctant to speak up, but the presence of my best friend made me more confident than I would have been in other circles. Regardless, we were chatting about the usual kid things, the Ninja Turtles most likely, or who was faster on the monkey bars, when out of what felt like nowhere, Matthew posed a question that left me addled.

“Do you think you’re pretty?”

It wasn’t asked meanly, though right away I could tell I was being baited. With a glance to my friend, I paused, trying to think of the best way to respond that would evade a sneer. Matthew was often doing that, for a multitude of reasons. It was unpleasant and as someone who has always been afraid of confrontation, I wanted to avoid being the brunt of another cruel joke.

The thing is, I’d never thought about it before, my prettiness. It hadn’t mattered. I did well in school, adults often praised my good behaviour and polite manners. I wasn’t popular but I got on well enough with my peers. Other than Matthew, and a boy named Shane in the third grade who had thrown my touque in a pile of slush, the other kids accepted me without comment. What did appearance have to do anything? I was just a child.

All of this ran through my young brain in rapid succession. I had a feeling I knew the answer he was looking for and I was determined not to give it. I assumed I wasn’t. Pretty, that is. It was a word saved for girls named Angela and Debbie and Emily, girls with lacey dresses and knee-high socks. Girls who giggled and played jump rope and who knew how to French braid. Girls who wrote notes to boys. I didn’t do any of those things. I tried but I still didn’t know how to jump in to the rope. My mother still styled my hair for me. Pretty wasn’t for girls who wore hand-me-downs from their male cousins or who spent their time writing stories they never finished or playing Barbies with their sister several years after dolls were deemed uncool. Pretty girls didn’t gloat about being able to spell better than anyone else, they got the good parts in choir and didn’t trip when playing dodge ball. No, I wasn’t pretty. It hurt to realize this and I didn’t even know why. I was determined not to show it.

“No,” I said, scrunching my nose. “Who wants to be pretty? I’d rather be smart.”

The reply had occurred to me in a moment of brilliance. I had recalled one of my favourite lines from my favourite book, Anne of Green Gables. Gilbert had thought being smart was better and I decided I did too.

Matthew was not to be deterred. He snickered and scrunched his nose right back. The light in his eyes told me I had played it all wrong.

“That’s too bad, because you’re not smart OR pretty. You’re just ugly and dumb.”

“No uglier than you,” my friend spoke up, sticking her tongue out at him. Relieved, I followed suit. I remember wanting to punch him, wanting to say something as hurtful as what he had said to me. I couldn’t come up with anything. The truth is, I was hurt but I didn’t know why. I just knew there was something wrong with me for which I should feel ashamed.

From that moment on I knew being pretty was a necessary thing for a girl to be. Girls who weren’t pretty were second best, weren’t interesting or important. It was something one either was or wasn’t and now that I knew I wasn’t, I gave up every thought I ever had about fitting in. Instead, I worked hard at being smart in the hopes it would get me the approbation everyone craves.

I don’t blame Matthew. He was a kid as much as I was, a product of our beauty-obsessed society. He probably was repeating something he had heard and he did not know the power such words could have. If I’d been a different person, they may not have affected me so much. If others in my future hadn’t reiterated what he’d said in ways that were much more cruel, I may not have even remembered them.

Everyone has stories like this from their childhood. I don’t know why this one moment stands out for me. Perhaps because it was the first time an environment in which I had previously felt safe, became one where I would have to be on my guard. It was the start of the cynicism and fear that comes with adulthood. In some senses, this experience was too late and too soon.

Letter to My Dog, Part 475

Dear Shiva,

As always, it has been a long time since I have written you a formal letter. Longer, even, than the last time. I like to think I haven’t bothered because I haven’t had the need to communicate with you outside our physical interactions. I may be wrong, but we seem to get each other a tad more these days. What do you think?

Never mind, I take that back. I don’t want to know.

We both realize this is a lie, of course. Almost every minute we are together I am obsessing over your mood. “Is she relaxed? Am I stressing her out?” These are the questions that run through my head every time I look at you. “Are you happy?”

You aren’t telling.


That isn’t true either. You are telling, I am not observant enough or selfless enough to pick it up. Me, me, me. Such a typical human, eh?

To be fair, you aren’t the most considerate dog in the world either. When you are wanting to go outside, you don’t first wonder if I am feeling tired or ill. When you are hungry, you don’t worry about saving some of your for later, in case we run out of money to buy more. This is why you are so amazing. This “in the moment” thing you have going for you. It can be trying sometimes, yes. Your struggles with separation anxiety are proof of that. Sometimes I wish I could just tell you that we will be back or that something is temporary, like when the vet was trimming your nails. It will be over soon, I said with my eyes. I don’t know if you understood.

Because I am human and can only see things in my near-sighted human way, I am jealous of how you embrace the positive of every situation. You don’t think about later when I might go to work and leave you alone, you just savour the brilliance of the now. This is the most important lesson you have to teach. No doubt I am a frustrating pupil.

All of this hit me this morning on our usual walk. Being a Monday I was tired and impatient and wanted to get everything over with as soon as possible. Being a dog, you didn’t know about Mondays. You only knew it was morning and we were outside and there were things to explore. It meant nothing to you that I wanted to continue on our way so I could get home and get the next step of my day going. To you, there was no difference, in that moment, between today and yesterday, or all of the days previous and to come.

wpid-wp-1407811477930.jpegThis was what struck me as I tugged on your leash, anxious to move on. “C’mon Sheevs,” I believe I said. “This isn’t a Sunday. We can’t spend an hour sniffing at a leaf.” The second the words were released into the air, I realized how silly they sounded. And how inaccurate. The only thing preventing you from sniffing and me from relaxing and savouring the warm summer sunshine were my concerns for what was yet to come.

“The days are long, but the years are short.”

This is the one philosophy of Gretchen Rubin I try to embrace.  Dogs know it instinctively. You are in no hurry to get to the end. Nor should you be. Nor should I.

Thank you, puppy, for reminding me how special these moments are, and how fleeting. Too soon we may not be able to linger together. In my future impatient moments, I will strive to remember this. As frustrating as daily life can be, it is all over too soon. The little things are what matter the most. Our walks together are something I will always treasure. Before they are something of the past, I should make the most of them, just the way you do.

Lots of love, and probably too many treats,

Your grateful human

Dog Poetry Sunday – Sassoon

Today’s poem and poet was introduced to me by the venerable writer of Will My Dog Hate Me and Freud’s Butcher. One can say what she likes about Facebook but if it wasn’t for social media, I would have missed out on many scholarly treasures. Not to mention, countless adorable cat videos. This particular status update linked to a post on NPR about a dog’s one hundredth birthday. The whole thing is worth reading – it isn’t long – and of course, being Sunday, I was thrilled to find the several lines of verse included at the end.

From what I have learned, Sassoon was an English poet writing from the trenches of World War I. He was recommended for the Victoria Cross for his bravery in action on the Western Front and for his superior leadership skills. Given the atrocities he witnessed, it is understandable the writer suffered from mental health challenges and became more known for his opposition to the war than for his literary talents.

I am not surprised I had not heard of him before. My focus has always drifted towards the 19th century. Yet I am the first to admit that I am missing out. From my limited reading tonight Siegfried Sassoon sounds like someone I would like to get to know. What better place to begin than with his poem about a man and his dog?

I am sure we can all relate to the words below. Immediately I am brought back to the woods in Beford, Nova Scotia, where Shiva and I would explore without restraint. Running in large circles around me, stopping and sniffing at whim, and then chasing to catch up, Shiva was free and as close to perfectly happy as she can be. So was I. It was our space; we could commune and connect. I hope to find a similar forest again.


Man and Dog, by Siegfriend Sassoon

Who’s this — alone with stone and sky?
It’s only my old dog and I —
It’s only him; it’s only me;
Alone with stone and grass and tree.

What share we most — we two together?
Smells, and awareness of the weather.

What is it makes us more than dust?
My trust in him; in me his trust.

Here’s anyhow one decent thing
That life to man and dog can bring;
One decent thing, remultiplied
Till earth’s last dog and man have died.

EN: Just in case you are wondering, I may have missed posting here yesterday due to a camping trip to Pigeon Lake, but I didn’t forget my writing obligations. If interested, you can find my handwritten post here.

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