Writing this post wasn't really a high priority on my to-do list today. My laundry pile is reaching taller than I and there are dishes piled in the sink that DU swears he'll get to before returning to work tomorrow. The dogs are outside, probably covered from head to paw in drenched, blood red clay, waiting for me to let them in and wipe their dirty claws off. The bed hasn't been made and I know our hardwood floors are covered with a thin layer of canine shed. Besides all of my house mouse duties, I barely ever, if ever, do two posts in two days. It seems impatient and doesn't allow the throngs of my dear readers a chance to peruse the nugget of literature I posted just yesterday. However, I just walked outside; a meaningless activity, really, walking out of your home, that should not compel one to the written word but what forced me to my computer now is the sight that reached my retinas.
Before becoming the mother to three fantastic pooches, I never gave a thought to their primal nature as creatures of the wild. Titus was just a rescue dog who quivered like an earthquake anytime anyone, especially a male, came to pet him. His only adopted predecessor was Howie, a retired racing greyhound with a predilection towards anything having to do with being a real dog (ie: fetching, looking cute in Santa costumes, or doing tricks of any sort). So, without even meaning to, I became accustomed to dogs who were far removed from their canis lupus roots, so much so that the actions of my current canine companions shocked me but also made me think.
303... Come on 303... I think to myself as the red-dot numbers fly by in a blur.
303... 303... 303... I chant until somehow, possibly by my telepathic, mystical powers, the numbers 111 transform into a crimson palindrome that causes me to explode from my seat and begin dancing as if I were a native African whose village had just been spared by a rampaging elephant.
My frenzy ceases, and while I was mentally transported to Las Vegas in the week-long wait at the DMV; currently winning the jackpot of a kajilion dollars while playing crapes, those surrounding me were most certainly not. Hanging my head in the only kind of shame that is produced from having embarrassed yourself in public, I prayed to the big man in the heavens that I would never, ever run into any of these people on the outside as I walked through the "No Cell Phones Beyond This Point" etched doors.
The Writing huntress
I hunt. I write. I wear what some consider an unnecessary amount of camouflage face paint.