Dead puppy and wolf dog curse

My dog died. She was a sweet little pomeranian who I had for almost 10 years. I guess I never thought about it until she was gone. She was just always around.
She did have an affinity for hanging out in the road, so you kinda knew how her story would end. I just really miss her. I guess death always is kinda sudden, even if you see it coming. I hope she knew I loved her, or at least she liked my company. She was a pain in the ass at times, but I liked having her around. I like how little dogs can have ridiculously big personalities.

I think I've inherited a curse. It's this white wolf dog that my mom's friend dumped on me because he saw someone dump it out of a car and this poor wolf dog was running after his dumper down the highway. Depressing.
But after hanging out with him for a few days, I can see what would drive someone to throw it out of a moving car.
I don't think people should mix wolves with dogs because they look cool and then think that they will act like dogs. This thing paces around me with his piercing amber eyes always following me. He watches me while I sleep. And if I leave him, he freaks out howling and tearing everything apart. You can't tie him. He slips collars, shreds leashes, and finds any way he can to be free.
Once free, he doesn't wander far. He just paces around his new turf in a wolf-like gait, head down and looking around constantly.

I have him posted on craigslist, but the people who want a crazy wolf dog are just the type of people who can't handle wolf dogs. I'm sorry, I just can't give this thing to someone with an infant. People are idiots.

Anyway, my throat is swollen to high heaven and I'd like a night out tonight, but wolf dog tears up my new apartment if I leave him alone. Sigh. I knew my fucking bleeding heart would bite me in the ass some time.

The quick torrent of rain swept me from my plans tonight and has me staring at the window through a wine glass half full of terrible wine. The waves of rain coming down in sheets across the road has me thinking that I need to go to the ocean and soon. I like being consciously consumed by something so much bigger than me, tossed by a gravitation pull of the moon and collected in particles that touch me, touch millions of fish and crustaceans and creatures in the deep and kids off the coast of Africa and seabirds of all types. I like the thrill and terror of a good rip tide. It's less predictable than skydiving, but still the same amazing floating feeling.
I like ocean much better than politics, which gives me a similar feeling of being thrown around, but the ocean doesn't have any motives. It just is. Swimming would be my version of Zen.

I'm having trouble breathing today. Could be the 90 degree heat or could be the crawling in and out of pesticide laden grapevines. Tonight is like my Friday night as I'm off tomorrow, so the rest of this turned bottle of red wine is coming home with me along with a pit stop for some D batteries for my crappy keyboard. It's time to create, to write, to play.

And I love my new house. I feel terrible about it, like I'm guilty of treason, but I come home to my stark bare walls and minimal furniture and I feel right at peace. I'm developing new habits: where to take off my shoes or throw my keys, shower, brush my teeth a new way, clean out the cat box. It's all new and so therefore, I have tabula rasa. Each day I continue the sketch. With a fresh journal at my bed, I write before I go to bed and as I'm sleepily waking up. I listen to the birds outside the window, the sirens, the muffled conversations. I write. I read. I love it all.
I have a clear head, or a head that's clearing.
I have Parisian breakfasts of baguette chunks with some fruit and delicious cheese. I have fresh almonds to snack on as I pace around, nose in a book I've been meaning to read for years now.

Now I just have to purchase a vacuum and a drill. I never realized how much indoor cats get on my nerves. But she's pretty cool for a cat, so I guess I'll push out of my brain that part of my day involves scooping the manure of another creature. I swear she's whispering to me and changing my dreams. They've been about talking cats recently.
I need to sweep up around the catbox. That's the point.

And I'm drill shopping. Nothing makes a girl happier than a nice power tool. Don't be fooled. I'm serious.  Diamonds? No thanks. Unless you're talking about a sharpening stones. And platinum comes in chef's knives only. Silk is still ok in my book. As long as it's not underware. Those ride up and were invented by someone who hates women.
Anyway, I'm having trouble staying in my budget with a decent Ryobi or Black & Decker. I want the Dewalt cordless compact drill with extra battery. I'll probably get my girlie card taken away from me if I get a crappy vacuum and a super nice drill. Eh, I'm fine with that. My priorities are right.

I guess overall, I'm happy. The rain finally came so I don't have to water. I had an awesome week last week. I'm immercing myself in music and proper sleep patterns. My garden is about to produce for 10 families. I'm planting up a storm and lovign this June heat.... or so I try to convince myself. I night swim. I dream of what meat to grill. I am deep breathing, or trying to. I am centering myself as though gathering my footing on the starting block of a swimming pool, ready to jump....