Blues on day not a Monday

It’s another one of those times when the column inch is my arch-enemy.
A day when all the escapades born out of Pete being home from work went in one side of my brain for processing and made a run for it when I sneezed, along with my imagination, creativity, and anything else I was supposed to remember to write down while sitting here in front of my computer.
But then, I’m also bummed out anyway, which may account for more than some of the word sludgery I am wading through.
It’s Day 14—and it sucks.
No, it’s not “back on the diet” day. I kicked that worn-out statement out of my life once and for all six weeks ago when I finally grew up.
Day 14 is when Pete does his super hero act and flies off to the great white north. It’s also the day when we both are reminded that our wish never comes true and the time that we’re together does not drag on forever.
I guess that’s the price we pay for having fun.
Let’s talk dogs, as in the pair that an early spring fever must have infected, given their yard-spinning tirades of energy that hath no end.
The doggie circus that is “Cash,” named in honour of the man in black, is having his name appealed by the magistrate of family court.
Given the money he’s burning from my wallet by way of dog food, he’s soon going to be answering to “Siphon,” “Spender,” or “Pauper.”
And he didn’t get any brownie points yesterday morning, either, when he decided to employ Murphy’s Law and break through the mesh fencing of his dog kennel outside—about 10 minutes after my beloved left for work 800 km away.
“Dot,” still a startling image to look at after a doggie haircut revealed the fat sausage beneath all that fur, alerted me to “Cash’s” escape from Alcatraz and pinned him down with one fell swoop.
The ensuing canine struggle turned into a haywire frenzy of chasing each other around the farm yard—caving in the pitiful walkways shovelled from the house to the garage by a certain masculine someone whose name I shall not mention until after I calm down again.
To top it all off, once I coerced the black menace back into his kennel, shut the door, and proceeded to strap the mesh fencing shut with plastic tie wraps from my personal stash, I unconsciously licked my freezing fingers as I tethered the escape hatch.
In a New York minute, my right hand was stuck at the fingertips to the cold metal frame of the kennel—rushing in a flashback to the daring little kid in the playground screaming as her tongue froze to the flagpole.
For just a millisecond I’d thought about coaxing “Cash” to help free me up with a few sloppy licks, until my brain kicked in as to how that would complicate the matter at hand if we were both frozen there.
While not quite as painful as my tongue was on that day long ago, it was no walk in the park to get my fingers free.
I went inside to warm up with a cup of tea before heading off to work, periodically feigning dire consequences in the dog’s direction with my good hand, from through the kitchen window, as I watched him sniff the patch job on the kennel.
Then I opened the teapot to throw in a tea bag or two—and found a Hershey’s chocolate bar stuffed in there with a love note from Pete.
Honey, I miss you already, too.

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