Though young Rooki Kahooki's life has definitely changed for the better since she was rescued, starving and scared of everything, there is still one major obstacle to the total happiness she is striving for. Her dream reveals all.
Hi, Everybody -
To those of you who wondered what was going on, I apologize for not having posted in so long and for not responding to all the emails and Facebook posts and comments. It's because I've been at a loss for words about the way things have gone over the past months. Don't mention to Roo that the cat's got my tongue. It would shatter whatever respect she still has for me.
Roo is fine. Better than ever, actually. I don't have any recent pictures, but that one is only a couple of months old. Roo is under the illusion that she's on the best walk any dog has ever been on. Of course, she's wrong—it's only the second or third best. A Newfoundland named Seaman (google Newfoundland and Seaman and you'll see) had the best walk, and then Roo and Orville come in second and third—the order is debatable. Probably Roo. At night, in her dreams, she reviews the reduction she has singlehandedly inflicted on the mouse population of the entire United States. She has personally dug up all of it but New Jersey, which, considering that it's run by that crooked whore of Trump's, Chris Christie, and if she did dig there would only find Jimmy Hoffa and half a million half-burned tires, is a good thing.
Don't worry if I don't post again for a while. Everything's fine. At least we're not in New Jersey.
Tread separation, both tires. Fortunately caught before they blew out in a difficult, or dangerous, place.
Now I have to back the crate out of that garage....
The Kahoo was thankfully in the car while I was trying to figure out how to back up through a couple of trees when this happened.
I never thought I would find myself agreeing with Sarah Palin on so many matters. From A to Z on the chronology of planetary events, beginning with Young Earth Creation Theory—I mean, come on. If a casual snapshot like the one above of a Tyrannosaurus can prove that dinosaurs still walk the Earth, who needs radiocarbon dating? (Which gives me the next in my series of billion-dollar ideas: a radiocarbon dating web site for people of a certain age seeking romance. What do you think?)
The next planetary event to which Ms. Palin applied her towering powers of prophecy, and which came true, Dudes and Dudettes, were the Death Panels of which she warned in 2008. I have learned, through an emergency Freedom of Information Act request, that the panel denying me the tests ordered last week in the ER was chaired in secret session by Hillary Clinton herself (forget the emails or Benghazi—they're going to get her on wiping out Bernie supporters this way). So, after a week of arguing, I give up. I don't know if stress can give you chest pain, but if it can, that would explain it. I know this trip seems like an endless vacation, but it's more like being marched out to be shot against a beautiful background every day and then having the firing squad laugh and put their guns down every time they reach, "Fire," and being sent back to your cell.
Anyway, the time has been put to use trying to prepare the audiobook of Notes, which is technically difficult to do with a cheap mic and a laptop in a trailer. This is because every word contains sounds like the ones Uncle Murray makes when he gums pureed brisket and asparagus while his dentures sit in a tumbler of water on the dining room table, and every one of those clicks and pops has to come out. Should it ever be completed, it will be available on Audible.com and Amazon and iTunes, so please get ready to download it and review it, because getting reviews will be the only way to make it visible enough to sell. The goal is to buy enough gas to get us from central Utah to southern Idaho with a stop at the Petco in Provo on the way. I hope some of you will do that.
Anyway, Roo is finished digging her morning hole, so, adios, amigos. We're off to live every day as if it was our last, because the odds are one of them is.
Maybe there's a reason it's less traveled. Maybe because once someone else has traveled it, they make sure—as a way to set themselves right in the eyes of even the most vengeful god—to let other people know that they better not travel it.
This was one such road. Ever try backing up with a trailer on the hook for a quarter of a mile on a sand track so soft that it requires four wheel drive? So narrow that both sides of everything are dragged through the sagebrush?
No? Well, take it from me. It's the road less traveled.