Just a Pretender?

Who am I?, I wrote on a notepad last week. I have one strategically placed in each room just in case. Am I really a writer if most of what I’ve done recently is repackage the work of others, (with clear credits), editorialize for my tiny group of followers, hope to get just one to pay attention and vote?

Let me back up and start with the first question. I am Kara, named after the Greek word for joy, not the Kara Sea north of Siberia, and I’m a Taurus.

I recently labeled myself as “Rabid Dabbler in Bilderfassung of Himmel, Blumen, Wasser and Schlafenden Gelben Hunden”, referring to my interest in hobby photography, but I also dabble with writing on the interwebs, about dogs, traveling, and traveling with dogs. Sometimes my friends say I should be a writer. It does run in my family, and I do like being silly with words, even making them up if the spirit moves me.

I'm not sure if my writing stinks like the gift from my old dog last week when I was too slow to listen to the little voice clopping down the cobblestone path of my mind, compelling me to take him outside. Maybe I'm just a Pretender. But if I was, would my walls be papered with quirky observations and snippets such as “poopy paradox” and “pre-fight loin girding”?

Misinterpreting Prince Hamlet, in Shakespeare’s “Hamlet”, 

“To be, or not to be . . .”

Maybe I already am.

September 29

Inspired by this me-me 
seen on Nov 30

after a not so great year

I am in Bend

With a friend

His name is Mike

He has a bike

The air is fresh

Autumn creeping

Summer fading

The world's a'changing

I borrow a bike

Adjust the seat

One more time

And yet again

We cross the river

Find that house with my dream garden*

Then off to lunch

Fish tacos yum yum yum

Back on the road

Riding the cruisers

I'm lost

I don't care

Just following my guide

We pass a small crowd

Wearing red hats

Protesting Pride

A scene of the times

A stop at a house

With free treats for dogs

The lady comes out

For a neighborly chat

She shares some fruit

I don't remember what

Ahhhhh, yes

Asian pears, that's what

We ride along the river

Up a big hill

Down a set of stairs

Or maybe I balked

Time for afternoon coffee

In a riverside cafe

Summer's drawing to a close

I sip and savor minimal clothes

We wrap up our ride

I return the bike

Pick up my keys

Back in my van

Driving north to winter

Flannel pants await

More medical appointments

A mystery unsolved

But for those few hours

Everything was great

*awkward sentence allowed to remain because that was my only goal for the day, to find a house I'd seen before but hadn't been able to find

 

Do I Love My Couch More Than My Dog?

The couch is 10 years old. It wasn't expensive. It is small, no electronics, cupholders or recliners. Just an extra chaise piece on one end. 

I got it when I had three big yellow Labs in a small house, so we could all sit on it together and watch TV. I haven't watched TV in nine years, and gave up sitting on the sofa for the most part after it was convicted and found guilty of contributing to poor posture and physical therapy bills. Its only role for many years has been a furniture height dog bed.

The Lab colored cloth cushions sported an ill-fitting cover until that was in shreds. Since then, I've kept it covered with dog towels, trying to control the golden glitter. I remove the towels so the rare visitor can sit on it. I've tried to not destroy it so it can be passed on to a second owner. I'd say the four dogs, (two have gone, a new one added), have gotten my money's worth.

On the other hand, the dog is 13 years old. He's a rescue I adopted at 16 months. For 8 years, he was a willing and uber-enthusiastic agility partner. He was a quick learner and a natural at the sport (unlike his handler). It was such a thrill to run with him in the practice or competition ring, especially the year or two we looked like we knew what we were doing, maybe.

While he has a stubborn streak and one bad habit, he's 1000% devoted to me, and that's not nothing in my book. Of course he sleeps on the people bed. In the winter, he is my heater, tunneling under the blankets at some point during the night.

I'd go so far as to say he thinks he is a person. Other dogs don't seem to exist. Other people either, for that matter, although in his younger years at a dog park, he'd disown me for a stranger with a chuck-it.

Lately, he has started to scratch on the sofa, nesting. He scrapes back the towels, leaving rake marks on the cushions. Until this week, it only happened when I left the house. I considered getting his big crate back out, but would rather not sentence him to jail. This week it started happening in the night, and when I heard it, I tried to get him to stop. 

Today I decided that's a battle I don't want to have with my old guy. After all he's given me, and in what will probably be his final year, do I not love him more than the cheap couch that I don't sit on anyway?