Site icon Lilith Saintcrow

Hope, Dry Land

It’s been a dreadful week. Monday was bad, Tuesday worse, Wednesday a gulp of air but not nearly enough, Thursday below the surface again. Now it’s Friday, so we all deserve a treat.

This is the dog who wriggled out of his harness last week and gave me a damn heart attack, my gods. He has since been very quiet and thoughtful, probably since I only caught him because he treed a cat. (Don’t worry, I made sure the cat could get down before I left the area to drag Boxnoggin’s silly ass home. Nobody was hurt, though I was terribly frightened for about ten minutes.) Also, I got a new harness for him, one billed as escape-proof.

We shall see. But anyway, here’s Boxnoggin after his adventures, worn out and collapsed on his fancy memory foam bed, reproachfully staring at me because I didn’t let him keep the cat.

We’ve all got problems, haven’t we.

Be kind to yourselves this weekend, my beloveds. If you’ve reached the end of your ability to cope, you’re not alone. I’m hoping that a little rest and a little scratching the itch of a book I’ll never sell will give me enough strength to break the surface, gasp, and maybe find some way to climb out of the sea.

At least I can’t sink entirely. I mean, just look at that face. The dog needs me to remind him how to get up the stairs in the morning, for godsake; Miss B has her own list of requirements. For them–and for the kids–I’m still struggling for the surface.

May we all reach dry land soon. Over and out.

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