Our old boy is sick. You couldn’t tell by looking at him, especially at the dog park. There he trots along with that sled dog long distance gait that he used for his eleven working years. He’s fourteen now with a gray beard but still fit and trim, his big sled dog feet still leaving wolf size prints in the snow. There is a large mass on his spleen, probably malignant. There is no way of knowing without cutting him open which all agree would not be wise. We wait and see. Our boy, Punchy.
Tomorrow, we are going on a sewer tour. Actually, it’s a two-hour (outside) tour of our city’s water treatment system that will occur on Jones Island, a mysterious location where Great Lakes ships unload and the city’s giant winter salt stores are kept under gigantic plastic tarps anchored by dozens of tires. We aren’t getting paid to do this. But maybe we will get t-shirts or something.
I had a pomegranate martini this week. For a person whose most alcohol consumption is out of a box, having such an exotic drink was really, as my dad would say, out of this world. Plus I drank the martini across from this fine fellow, a lumberjack I picked up on the way to a famous supper club in our town.
We have become cat people. It’s taken the good part of a year but we tolerate a cat walking across our heads in the morning like a child stepping from rock to rock across a creek. At night, I feel the heavy lump of the cat against my foot and I’m loathe to move lest I disturb him. I don’t want him to leave our bed. When he does, when he leaps down to find a less restless place, the bed feels cold and oddly bereft. That is, until he makes his morning wake-up tread.
I am the incoming chair of the Milwaukee County Commission on Aging. This happened today. It makes me feel like the mantra “You’re not done yet” has some truth. 2023 will be a good year for me.