One Year Out

I feel so bad about this. I hardly remember her anymore. I try, but I can't remember her face. I can't bring it up in my mind when I think about her. I remember the whines of almost anguished joy when we'd ask her if she wanted to go for a walk, and I remember her sleep-howling. I remember the way her back legs turned out and how funny it made her look on walks when she'd get in front of me. I remember the incessant licking - her paws, our faces, the air, anything her tongue could reach - and how she'd try to do it more quietly when we'd tell her to stop. LICK LICK LICK "Lucy, for the love of GOD! STOP!" lick lick lick.

Everybody loved her. "I don't even like dogs, but she was different." "Oh, that's the one you told me about?" "Yeah, that's the one."

But I can't remember her face.

Clever Phrases Elude Me

On Winston, knitting and fitness --


Yes, we changed young Bug's name. He's as cute as a bug, which is probably how the name came about in the shelter, but the name just wasn't working, in part because 'Bug' is too close to 'Buddy', but in larger part because I've never understood the phrase 'cute as a bug'. I find insects and arachnids fascinating and somewhat alien, but not cute.

We bandied about names for a few days, briefly considering Kojak because of a perceived resemblance to Telly Savalas, and rejecting several other names outright. "You know, when he gets that inquisitive, thoughtful look on his face, he reminds me of Winston Churchill."


The Woman! How could you? I thought that I was your Churchill! I must now despise this usurper!

We call him Win for short, because he's a WINNER.

So angry. So very, very angry. And I don't like that he tries to sniff me in personal places. Dog never tried to do that. She respected my privacy. He needs boundaries, the Woman.

It's a sign of friendliness and affection, Buddy.

In a shady side-street bath house, perhaps. You do know that I still remember how to, how shall I delicately put this, demarcate my limits, yes?

Noted.


This one's smart. He caught on to 'easy' after about five tries. He will not lunge for that ball, no matter how enticingly we wave it in front of his muzzle. We have to constantly modify the order of commands we give him when we're practicing our obedience lessons. He learns them like they're pieces of a dance routine. "Sit - down - sit - look - down. Got it. I don't even need the hand signals."


Here he is with his friend, Miss Josie Kat, his neighbor at Pit Bull Hall. We took him out there a week ago to play with her. We're hoping that she finds a home in the East Bay, maybe on this side of the hills, so that we can get them together for play dates. (We'd settle for her just finding a home ANYWHERE. She's been at the Hall for a long time.) That's another big difference between Winston and Lucy. Win likes playing with other dogs, something that was just too hard for Lou.

With everything that's happened in the last month, I haven't really had quiet time to think about my old girl. I'm only starting to do that now, to miss her. I miss the howls of joy when we'd ask her if she wanted to go for a walk. I miss her peculiar, goofy preference for hot concrete over cool, soft lawn. I miss her intense concentration when we'd give her strange commands like "out of the kitchen" or "let the cat drink from the water bowl first". I miss the way that she'd quiver from nose to tail when we had her in a sit-stay, barely able to contain her ever-present glee. The staff at VMS sent us a lovely book with condolences in the end pages a couple of weeks ago, and one of the notes in it said something like "Lucy was a joy, because she was so happy to BE."

We've been saying that Winston's smarter than Lucy was, but I think that's a misrepresentation of her intellect. She was smart in her own way - as smart as she needed to be to make us happy - and maybe more willful than we knew. She knew all of the commands. She also knew that staring blankly at us for long enough meant that we'd give up and let her get away with not obeying them.

I've been thinking about this a lot recently, because I want to reassure myself. I want to feel that I'm not trying to replace her, to make light of the loss of her by comparing her unfavorably to the newer, and in some ways 'better' dog. I emerge from these frequent reveries with the same conclusions. It wasn't too soon, because Win needed us and we needed something bright in our lives after those weeks of darkness. He's not a replacement dog, because Lou was irreplaceable. He's not even a better dog, because that'd mean that we were judging them by the same standards, and that's not fair to either of them. He's simply a different dog.

He's also not a perfect dog. See how little progress I've made on my fluffy angora sweater? Guess who wants that angora in his mouth? (Hint: Buddy loathes angora.) I spent two hours untangling and rewinding 100 yards of it the other night. We keep reminding ourselves that he's barely more than a puppy, just a year old, and that he's a little mouthy as a result. It's just that he's got such a big mouth.


It's about seven inches down from the back of the neck now, with about an inch to go for it the armscyes to be deep enough for layering a shirt underneath. I'm pretty close to the point where I'll separate the sleeves, and also fairly close to closing up the v-neck. It should fly off the needles at that point, and in a good way, not because half the stitches and a ninety-yard ball are in a pit bull's mouth.

I'm in the early stages of my annual fitness restart. I ran on Saturday, and Accountant Boy and I lifted weights yesterday. My goal for this week is to make it to the gym just two more times. More would be super, but I'm trying not to set my expectations too high. Next week's goal is to feel good enough about my progress to call my trainer and schedule an appointment. My last call to her, a voicemail message, went something like this:

"Yeah, uh, Amazon? It's me. Hey, I'm not going to make it to my session tomorrow, because my dad suddenly, uh, died. And I'm O.K., so don't worry about me, but the funeral's tomorrow and I'm standing by the bathrooms at Costco in a business suit with a cart full of liquor because it's my job to get everyone drunk and keep them drunk. Did you know that they'll open a checkstand for you if you walk up in a suit? Weird, huh? I think it's because A.B. and I look like FBI agents. So, yeah, not training tomorrow. Look, I gotta go because I hate people who talk on cell phones in stores, and now I'm one of those douchebags. Talk to you soon, O.K.?"

I should maybe call her back.

Vargas!

Well, Lucy was a great housemate all right.

And a lousy cop.

Is that all you have to say for her?

She was some kind of a dog... What does it matter what you say about...uh...people?

Buddy, did you just finagle me into reenacting the last scene of 'Touch of Evil' with you? Badly? And you were playing the Marlene Dietrich role?

I'm feeling noirish today.

Like an aging German chanteuse?

Never mind that. Look at how Hitchcockian I look on Dog's old bed.

Heartbreaking is the word for it, Buddy. Tell your readers that the only reason we put the beds out again was that you kept laying on the floor in the empty spaces where Lucy used sleep, staring forelornly at the walls.

Yes, well, look at how that worked for me, the Woman. I'm sleeping on a Tempurpedic dog bed, for God's sake. I believe I can get anything I want from you and the Man if I try hard enough. Watch this.

Oh, Dog! Oh, beloved, ox-like Dog! How I miss you! All of the tunafish in all of the pantries in the land won't cure my melancholy!

Yeah, nice try there, Buddy. I'm not falling for that one again. For the third time. This week.

I, ummm, I like your hair, the Woman.

Why, thank you, Buddy! When I got it cut yesterday, I was worried that it ended up too short, but...hey, wait a second. Dammit! I'm not falling for that one again, either.

Rosebud!

Regrets, I've Had a Few

I remember taking this picture. I know why I look so sad. I was trying to get a good shot of KristaBella, my hybridized White Lies Shaped Lace Tee. I'd had it finished for a couple of weeks, but I wasn't happy with it. I didn't like the way the cotton looked on me, I didn't like the length, and I didn't like the sleeves. I knew I wouldn't, even as I was knitting it. I regretted continuing on with the project.

I also regretted dropping out of the gym routine. I'd lost it, just completely lost it after the half-year mark for obvious reasons. It was a tough few months. Even so, I remember thinking, "Maybe I'd like this sweater more if I were ten pounds leaner. I screwed up and made the waist shaping too shallow, but maybe that wouldn't matter if I actually narrowed at the waist. Maybe it'd drape better."

I knew I was going to regret leaving that kitchen. Daisy, Falstaff and The Wolf are doing a fantastic job of keeping it beautiful, but I sure do wish it were still mine. I felt that way as I ran around the tripod to pose for this shot.

So that look you're seeing on my face? That's deep, aching regret.

All of that aside, it didn't come out too badly. It's a pretty, summery sweater. It's a nice fit, and it blocked beautifully. It turns out that this just isn't my style. When I wear it, I don't feel pretty or summery. I feel like a nouveau-bohemian Cal student. Oh, don't even get me started on Cal. Why the hell do they get to call themselves Cal, anyway? There are many universities in California. I went to two of them. Neither of my schools got to call themselves 'Cal'. What the Hell? And don't give me that "they were the first one" crap, either, because I don't give a good goddamn. Cal my ass. I don't particularly like Stanford, either, but I cheer heartily for them during every game they play against Cal. There's no explanation for it, really. I just hate Cal. So this sweater makes me irrationally angry when I wear it. Perhaps I should donate it or swap it away...


Details Section
The details are fuzzy, because it's been a while, and...ah, who the Hell cares?

Pattern
Krista/Bella/Shaped Lace Tee from White Lies Designs.

Yarn and Notions
Cotton yarn from an old White Lies kit. It'd been in my stash for almost three years. I think it might have been Cascade Alpine. I could probably figure out how much I used and figure out how much I have left, but whatever. If you look at Joan's patterns, you'll get accurate yardage requirements.

The kit came with these lovely acrylic leaves for the ties. They're really the only reason I kept going.


Needles
Brittany. I don't remember the exact size. I think it might have been US 8s.

Size
34" or 35", I think. I figured it was cotton and it would stretch, so that's the most logical guess I can make.

Time
Summer 2007.

Modifications
Too many to list. I took the parts of Bella that I liked, combined them with the gauge and sizing of Krista/SLT, and came up with this.

Conclusions
I don't like knitting with cotton. I miss my old kitchen. I hate Cal.


About Lucy

Thanks, everyone, for your sympathy. A.B. and I are alright. We had so many good years with Lucy, and she was so full of joy every single day, that we've been able to move right to reminiscing about her. We're past most of our grief. I believe that grief is often mistaken for regret. "I wish I'd..." "Now I'll never get a chance to..." "If only I'd..." I don't regret one single thing about our time with Lucy. A.B. and I know that we did the best we could for her, we gave her six and a half years that she wouldn't have had if we hadn't swooped in and adopted her, and we loved her unconditionally. It made it easier to make the right choice and say goodbye.

I think it's probably hardest on Buddy. His whole routine is thrown out of whack, and we know how important routine is to Buddy. I think he misses her. We didn't think that'd be a problem. We'd always assumed that he'd prefer to be our only non-human housemate. I don't know why we thought this - he'd always lived with other animals, aside from that first year we had him indoors with us - but we always believed he'd be happy by himself. The past couple of days, however, he's been wandering around downstairs and meowing. Food doesn't calm him down. Sitting him on the sofa and petting him doesn't work for very long. He still runs upstairs and throws himself on the bed next to me, but he doesn't stay there to sleep the way he did as recently as last Friday. Poor little fellow.

Well, don't tell him, but we may have something in the works to cheer him up. More on that later...

Sweet Lucy - 1999ish - 2008

She loved being on the couch with her head on the pillows.


She loved chewing on her bone.


She loved us.


There won't be another like her.

Good dog, Lou.

Simple Joy

It's no secret to those who know me that I get too wrapped up in things. I feel as though I think about everything all of the time.

Here's a good example. I've purchased a large salmon filet for tonight's dinner. It's sitting in the refrigerator here at work. Every few minutes, I stop and think to myself, "Remember that there's salmon in the fridge!" I'd write a sticky note to myself about it, but that would lead me down the slippery slope of office supply procurement, and then I would find myself doing a rough count of the number of sheets of sticky note paper still on each of my two little pads, wondering if I should waste a note on something so simple as remembering to take dinner home. And what happens if and when I get the salmon home? We still haven't purchased a vent hood for our range, and the aroma from dinner two nights ago is still lingering in our bedroom as a result. What happens if I cook the fish and the whole house smells? I then start thinking about adding a vent hood to the kitchen, how much it will cost, how much it would cost to redo the entire kitchen, whether we should do that before replacing the inefficient windows, and how we're going to refinance both houses in order to be able to do any of this. I then start panicking about our financial situation. Maybe we shouldn't have moved. We were happy enough in our old house. Now, Daisy and Falstaff are happy in our old house. I need to get over there and clean up the yard and spray the peach tree with fungicide. I should put that on a note or a list.

All of that from a lovely salmon filet.

I'm trying to change this about myself, trying to remember that not everything has to be thought out in intricate detail. Sometimes it's good enough to let things be simple.

Lucy has this down. Lucy has very few wants. She loves food, she loves her bone, she loves being inside, and she loves us. We give her only those four things, and she's happy. We've tried over the course of her years with us to give her more. We tried to give her a nice yard, but she didn't much care for it. She wants to be in the house. We tried to teach her to play ball, but she'd only ever chase it a few times, then bring it back and lay at our feet. She wants to be with us, not running away from us to chase a ball. We tried to give her more elaborate, less tooth-wearing toys, but she'd ignore them in favor of frantically searching for her bone. In short, if we feed her and then let her inside to sit next to us and chew on her bone, she's good. She wants nothing more. She has no ulterior motives, no plans or schemes. She is simply happy.


The other day, while Accountant Boy was online looking at cars, I had an urge to knit and nothing in particular on the needles. I'd swatched for a sweater, but then I was going to have to find the pattern, and adjust for some differences in gauge, and then what if I didn't have the right circular needles, and...too much stress. Wasn't knitting fun for me at one point? When did it become another thing to worry over?

I wandered into the garage and opened one of the stash bins, the bin that has all of the single skeins. I thought about how I needed to reorganize all of the bins, and that thought sent me spinning down the path of reorganizing the whole garage, even though it was near midnight and below freezing. "No! Just stick your hand in and pick one!" I said to myself. I came up with a skein of Berroco Chinchilla Colors in 'Tuscany'. I'd bought it, along with other yarn that I don't exactly remember, from Webs. I only had the one skein, and it was probably four years old. There wouldn't be more of it. I stood there with it in my hand, debating between using it and waiting until I had the right yarn for the body of a sweater so that I could use the Chinchilla for the collar, even though I have no thoughts of wanting a multicolored faux-fur collared sweater.


I shook myself out of my daze of thoughts and left the garage. I plucked a pair of size 13 needles out of the pretty jar that Daisy gave to me a couple of years ago. I sat cross-legged on the chaise with my one ball of yarn and my big needles. After a couple of test cast-ons to see how wide my scarf would be, I started knitting.

It was soothing, the sound of the wooden needles tapping together, the rhythmic sweeping as they slid past each other. I watched with interest as the colors linked together from row to row. I kept stopping to tug on the material to see how it was going to look, and grinning gleefully at the plush furrows. It was only ten stitches wide. There was no way to mess it up, no pattern to follow, no deadline for completion. It was just fun. I'd forgotten how much fun it could be.

I don't know how long it took to finish, maybe two or three hours. By the time we left the house the next day, I was wearing it.

It's stretched quite a bit, making it much narrower and quite a bit longer than I'd thought it would be. I don't care. I wrap it around my neck three or four times and wear it anyway. Marvel at how good it looks with my abstract Korean art.


Feeling inspired by my new outlook on knitting, I went back into the bins and came up with four balls of sock yarn from Interlacements. According to Clayton, there wasn't enough twist for it to be used for socks. I bought it two Stitches ago, intending to make a Clapotis from it. Then I threw it in the stash and kept coming up with impractical alternatives involving doubling it with a solid sock yarn and making a sweater from it.


The Hell with that noise. It's time for that yarn to be something other than a complicated thought in my head. It's coming along nicely, I think.

I'm not making formal resolutions this year, because they'd only end up as more worries on my mind. I'm simply going to try to follow my little mantra. Less thinking, more doing. Less planning, more living.

Beyond Thunderdome

EDITOR'S NOTE: Lucy's fine. She's entertaining herself by rolling around on the carpet. If she were less busy, she'd thank you for your concern. This is not a sad post.

Yes, there's knitting content coming. Yes, there's house news. I'll get to it this weekend.

You know what's more important? That we stop and take a minute to acknowledge and be thankful for groups like BadRap.

Several years ago, one of my co-workers sent out an e-mail asking for help. I probably still have it somewhere in my archives. The gist of it was, "Please help! There's a sweet dog at the shelter, and she doesn't have much time. I'll find another home for her if someone will just get her out of the shelter!"

I'm a sucker, so of course I called him. "Tim, how much time are we talking about?"

"You'd have to decide by the end of today. She's only got a few hours. Do you have time to drive up there right now?"

"Well, I'm at work, so it might be kind of tough. What kind of dog?"

"Lab-pit mix. C'mon. Nobody will miss you. Meet me in the parking lot!"

We drove twenty-five miles up to the Martinez animal shelter. I knew the moment I saw that gaping smile that I couldn't let her take that long, last walk. I called Accountant Boy when I got back to my desk.

"You're not really asking me in a way that lets me say 'no', are you?"

"Awwwwww honey! We can't let her DIE!" It came out of my mouth as a distinctly Lucy Ricardo wail. That's how she got her name, by the way.

"Do I have time to at least meet this dog before we bring it home?" It turned out that he didn't. I ended up adopting a dog that he'd never seen before.

Still, I was concerned. The Engineer and Big Guy had both owned pit bulls, and both dogs had been more than a little cat-aggressive. There'd been tragedies. "We'll save her, but Tim, you MUST find someplace else for her. We won't risk Buddy's safety. We made him a promise. We're giving you a chance to find her a permanent home."



As everyone other than the two of us knew, we were her last chance. As the weeks went by, it became apparent that Tim wasn't going to find another sucker to take a hyperactive, burly black pitbull off our hands. Problem was, every time we tried to bring her in from the back yard, she went after Buddy. She had a lot of territory issues, and God knows what else from her life before meeting us. "She's a good dog, and she's trying so hard, but we CAN'T KEEP HER!" Much weeping and hand wringing followed. "Maybe there's some pitbull rescue that can take her."

Enter BadRap. We called them, hoping they'd just, I don't know, sweep in and take her somewhere else. Naive, sure, but we didn't know any better. We didn't know how overtaxed their extensive volunteer and foster care system was, didn't think that if Lucy was already in a good home, she was infinitely better off than the dogs that they were still valiantly trying to pluck from the shelters. As much as they wanted to help, they didn't have a foster home for her.

"Are you sure you can't keep her? She sounds like a real sweetheart."

"We tried to introduce her to our cat, and she tried to EAT HIM! It was HORRIBLE!"

"How did you introduce them?"

"We had her on a leash, and we let him out of the bedroom, and..." We basically described the second half of 'Beyond Thunderdome'. Two pets enter, one pet leaves. "...yeah, I guess I can see where that'd go wrong..."

There was laughter on the other end of the line. I was then gently and good-naturedly informed that we hadn't done the introductions right at all, and that we should give it another try, this time with a crate and a little more control. We followed her recommendations, and you know the rest of the story.


So since then, I've been a big cheerleader for BadRap. It gives me great pleasure to link to this news article. Look at how, even in the middle of such horror, there can be good.

Glass Table Gator

"You guys? Hey, you guys? You know what I really like? I like you, and I like Buddy, even though he wants to claw my face off, and I like my rope, and I like you, and I really like El Pollo Loco, so I was thinking that maybe you could drop some chicken under the table, you know, if you wanted to do that, because that would make me really, really happy. By the way, this is Lucy. Umm...hi!"

Oh, such bad, bad habits we've stopped actively discouraging in her this summer. She does this thing where she gets as flat onto the floor as she possibly can be, then follows our movements with just her eyes. "Aww, but look at her! She's so cute! And she has cancer! Give her half of your dinner, just this once. We'll start making her obey again tomorrow."

Nothing new on the house front, except that the trouble in the mortgage market is holding us up. If a high tide raises all boats, the inverse is also true. This current ebb is stranding the whole fleet. Without going too far into it, I'll just say that if Accountant Boy and I can't get a reasonable rate on a home loan right now, nobody can.

I'm only an hour away from finishing the chimera that was once Shaped Lace Tee/Krista/Bella. All that's left is weaving in the ends. More on this later.

Sleevie Blunder

So how are things going with the Arosa pullover? Hmmm. That's a tough one to answer. On the one hand, it's been described as 'sloppy', and the sleeves still aren't done. Who dared call my handiwork sloppy? I did. Who agreed with me? Accountant Boy. The neckline is too loose, and I can't bring myself to rip it out and tighten it up. On the other hand, there's still hope for it. I think I can tighten up the neckline by changing where I've seamed the insert to the main part of the body. The sleeves, well, that's a different story. I tried a cap sleeve, but it was out of proportion with the rest of the sweater.


I then knit a 3/4 sleeve, which started out as a full-length sleeve but got demoted because I did some weird shaping at the wrist and decided the weird shaping would look less weird if it were at my elbow. I did all sorts of fancy shaping on the cap, but it looked crappy combined with the shaping on the body of the sweater, so I frogged it and reknit it. I then knit the other sleeve. In an expected turn of events, I've screwed up and knit the second sleeve about an inch wider than the first. I'm so tired of knitting it now that I don't plan to reknit the bigger sleeve to be smaller, or the smaller sleeve to be bigger. Yes, I took copious notes and yes, I followed them, except for the part where I noted how many stitches to cast on.

You might think this has soured me on the project. Wrong-o, dear readers. I'm looking forward to putting it all together tonight. It's got a sort of mid-century vibe to it, with a tailored look to the shoulder and a curvy front. It's very late-series 'Perry Mason' murderess/tennis star.


Lucy's been hanging out with me while I knit. Here she is, at my feet on the concrete patio, a couple of yards away from her very comfortable, cushioned bench. Like I said about this time last year, she's not the sharpest knife in the drawer. I reached down to pet her after I took this picture. This caused her to sigh, haul herself to her feet, and wander back behind the barbecue.


I like it back here because it smells like delicious, and I like delicious. -- Lucy the Dog

Disgustipated

Oh, knitting. Why must you torment me so?

I had taken the past week and a half off, intending to relax and knit. The week did not go exactly as planned, with the doggy chemotherapy and the unpredictable weeping interrupting my hours of enjoyment, but yet I was hopeful. Arosa was only two sleeves away from being finished, and Bella was going to be done in a record-breaking four days. At least, I reasoned, I'd have something to show for my vacation.

What went awry? Why am I less than enthused, with only hours left of my vacation? Notice that neither piece above has sleeves. Both need sleeves, as I have admitted and Daisy has confirmed. "Mmmmmm...yeah," she said, her face crinkling ever so slightly with distaste. "It needs something. Maybe just a cap sleeve, but definitely something."


I knew as soon as I started the Arosa sleeve, which is a *YO, K2tog* mesh for its entire length, that I wasn't going to be doing it. The yarn, so happy to be knit in stockinette, was nearly impossible to knit into that net pattern. I'm going to have to make something up to replace it.


What about the Krista with the Bella neckline, the one I'm going to start calling Kristabella? Oh, that. The sleeves, which I'm too disgusted to photograph, came out at least ten stitches too short on each edge. I ran out of stitches when I was seaming them in. I'm pretty sure I misread the pattern, and that I missed a few repeats between decrease sections. Also, it's cotton. Cotton immediately stretches across my torso and makes me look about ten pounds heavier than I am. I don't know why I keep forgetting this. I don't think it'll be a bad sweater when it's done, and it was quick enough to knit, but now I'm unmotivated to do anything with it.

So here's my dilemma. I can reknit the Kristabella sleeve, making it a 3/4 sleeve with a bell edge, and I'd probably like it. I could have it done by the end of the day. Alternatively, I can make up a sleeve for Arosa and set it in, also being done by the end of the day. My goal is to be able to wear one of them to work tomorrow. I may decide based on a coin flip.

In other news, Lucy's tolerating her chemotherapy very well. The oncologist says that she's already responding well to the drugs, and her lymph nodes are shrinking quickly. I spent last week bursting into tears every time anybody expressed sympathy or concern about the situation. It's like when you fall down, and you're O.K. until somebody comes up and asks you if you're O.K., and then you start sobbing. I'm getting better about it. It now takes a good five minutes of talking about it to get me going. How's Lucy, the happiest dog in the world, handling this? She's wagging her tail and licking anything that moves. Nothing new there. She's sleeping a lot, but she wasn't exactly an insomniac before this. We're just happy to have her around, drowsy or not. She's a few feet away from me right now, snoring softly. It's good.

I got my invitation to Ravelry last week, poked around there a little bit and really liked it, but haven't done anything at all there for myself. Maybe I'll start inputting things once I've recovered from the stress of my vacation.

Yesterday was my 37th birthday. I knit, watched 'Perry Mason', ate brie and salami sandwiches for lunch, and had a good dinner with my friends. Accountant Boy made a fantastic card for me from an old GL transaction report. (We're trying to save money, because Lucy's care has now cost more than a trip to Europe.)

Yep, those last three paragraphs gave me just enough time for to think. I'm going to go knit the Arosa sleeves.

Waiting in the Half-light

12:45 - Anxious

You know what job I should have? Veterinary radiologist. They seem to make pretty good money, based on how much I've given them in the last year and a half, and they get to make their own hours. Today, for example, while I'm waiting by the phone for someone to tell me if Lucy has lymphoma, the radiologist is deciding if his wife is going to be mad if he comes in to work for an hour or two. "He might be here after 4:00." They've been great at the emergency vet, don't get me wrong, it's just that when it's your pet in the crate waiting for service, you don't want to hear "if he doesn't make it out today, you might as well pick her up and deal with it next week." I know that's just the way it is, but that's not what I want to hear. Grumpy and sick with worry. Want answer now.

While I'm waiting, I'm working on Arosa. I've got the back and the main part of the front done. The second part of the front is a little different than I thought it'd be -- it's just a little panel that gets sewn in after the neckline is done. I don't know what I thought it was going to be instead, but I didn't think it'd be a weirdly shaped piece of fabric.

I really like how this yarn's knitting up. Look at how cool the neckline's going to be, even before the edging gets picked up.



One last thing about Cobweb -- here's a detailed view of the bead and purl section. The color's weird in the picture, but at least the details are there.


Just waiting.

6:45 - Ranting and Foul-Mouthed

What is it with the cancer? First DaddyBanana has cancer, then my cousin has cancer, and now my DOG has cancer? Jesus tapdancing CHRIST! Could we stop with the fucking cancer already?!?

Hey, so now you get to say f$5k but I still get censored? - Belligero

Fuck off, clown.

Lucy Greyface

I love her great big face. That's all. Nothing bad, don't worry. She's fine. I just wanted to say it.

When I arrive home every evening after my ridiculous commute, I'm greeted by primal howl from the back yard, the sound I imagine a dog would make if it were being eviscerated by a puma, and that's my Lucy. The rough, ragged cry sounds as though it it being torn from her lungs. It's a horrible sound, and we don't know where she picked it up, but it seems to be an expression of her unbearable joy at being only seconds away from reuniting with us. I should record it. It's really something special.

When I open the patio door and that dense, wriggling mass of dog collides with my knees and starts licking the hem of my pants, I'm happy. It doesn't matter what mood I was in before. I can't tell you how many times I've walked in the house, muttering angrily to myself, really worked up about whatever it was, and had it melt away when I looked out the door and saw that big, goofy face staring up at me.

Good girl, Lou. Good dog.