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Dog Clutter  By  W. Bruce Watson
 
I was in and out all this week, except that on Friday, out totally; I only came in at all because my back is so goddamned sore I can't do any heavy yard work (getting the yard ready for winter). What the hell is that? Getting the yard ready for winter? What? So it shouldn't get cold or wet?

Our two dogs have pretty much defecated and urinated the yard into stupefaction; winters blasts can hold no threat to match these assaults (they're nice dogs however and I wouldn't change a thing), so as far as the yard is concerned, even if we had a lawn, you couldn't go out and sit on it in the shade and sip a tea or a wine or beer or coke or coffee or a martini, because of the smell and the flies. And you'd have to be real careful where you walk or sit. You wouldn't want to inadvertently step in something or worse yet sit on something or where something recently was even, you might spill your gin down your shirt or splatter hot coffee all over your shit-caked shoes.

Suppose we did have a lawn—imagine the mess you'd make if you ran the mower over something you missed in the premowing inspection; now you've just enlarged the area where you can't walk or sit by a factor of 10. Maybe a rototiller would be better. You could have one of those motor driven vehicular rototillers that you can ride on with the big black and white checked umbrella.

Then you could do the lawn in a more relaxed fashion; just kick back, sip your 1968 R. Mondavi Cabernet, and drive it around the back yard every Sunday, “doin’ the yard,” taking care not to grind up the house or the dogs. And when you're done you just lower the umbrella, leave it parked in the middle of the yard, and tell visitors that it's a kind of industrial strength lawn furniture, or that some interstellar soccer ball-meteorite has plowed into your yard leaving itself half buried right there. If it had a bench seat, both you and the Mrs. could sit out there at the same time with the umbrella up and enjoy the yard together. Wouldn't that be nice?
 
 
 
The truth is, after much furrowing of brow, I can't think of anything to say by way of preface to my blog. Along the way I wondered what it's purpose might be and maybe I should say a few words about that and would, except that I don't know what its purpose is, or could be, or should be. I only know that my clock is winding down and I'm so desperate to have my mind known that I could just spit! Maybe my blog could be about that. But how depressing and pretentious that could be! But hold on a second, maybe not—my therapist commented the other day how in late adulthood (AKA elder years), one is forced to deal with the sense of loss, all the time, it's always there, and it's painful, it takes great faith to live on even though one knows it's going to end and that whatever they accomplish, if anything, is not going to matter all that much. How does one find meaning or a sense of fulfillment in life knowing that it’s coming to an end? Psychologists have not written much about this if anything. It's sort of an unexamined part of adult life. It takes a lot of self-discipline to function in spite of this sense of loss—it's so easy to give up on the constant struggle, on life. A lot of people do—drinking, TV, drugs, electrosex, So, if you'll bear with me, let us examine this unexamined part of adult life.
 
 
 
 
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