I miss my dog.

Yesterday I caught myself walking home, sloshing my way through the leaves caking onto the sidewalk, thinking about my dog, Karch. Well, he's not really my dog -- he's my big brother's -- but for three years I lived at home with no one but my mom, dad, and our dogs (the other is Heidi, Karch's mom), so I can't help but be a little more attached to the guy than usual. I found myself wondering if I were to throw a tennis ball into a pile of leaves, would Karch go and get it?

First of all, let me tell you a little about Karch. My dad and I bred Heidi back in the early spring of 1997. I was about 12 at the time; my dad convinced me to join him in this "business venture" to make a little Christmas cash, as he put it. We'd breed Heidi, keep one, and sell the others! I'm surprised my mom didn't divorce him right then, but then again, this is also the woman who stuck around after my dad bought a timeshare, a boat, and batting cages (that's right) ... all without telling her. Needless to say, our "business venture" went completely bust after Heidi had to go in for an emergency C-section half-way through delivery in a specialized clinic (our normal vet was closed due to power outage) because the third and final puppy (that would be Karch) was too big to do things the conventional way. Karch was stuck inside of Heidi for minutes without oxygen. The veterinarian pretty much guaranteed that Karch was brain-damaged, and when he did come finally rolling into the world, he wasn't breathing on his own. For the first 24 hours of his life, my mom, my brothers, me, and all the neighborhood kids took turns holding Karch and stroking his back. He would only breath if he had constant stimulation.

Which perhaps accounts for a lot of Karch's behaviorisms. He won't come and sit at your feet -- he sits on your feet. If your hand is draped down over the arm rest of the couch, he comes and pushes his nose and head into your hand. On occasion he'll walk by you on the loveseat as if to go outside, then without warning jump into your lap. God forbid there is a thunderstorm, because Karch has been known to squeeze himself inside of a pantry that had been bungee-corded closed to keep him out in the first place. Karch will work himself into such a frenzy when we kids come home for break, that his barks climb in octaves until he's literally screaming and wagging his nub of a tail so hard that his entire back half swings like a metronome in 6/8 time. And he loves to play ball. My eldest brother once through the ball so many times for Karch that the poor dog actually puked, then brought the ball back for more. His excitement for that yellow fuzzy ball is electric. I still laugh remembering the sound of him trying to bark and hold a tennis ball in his mouth at the same time. Sounds a little like someone trying to start up a rusted out Volkswagen van, with long-sounding vowels.

I was wondering about the leaves because Karch, having lived his whole life at our home in South Florida, has never seen a pile of leaves. I can imagine exactly how the scenario would go. The ball would disappear into the pile, and Karch would screech to a halt right at the edge. He'd sniff and smell around it, then look at me and bark just once -- like he does this when the ball rolls under the couch. It's as if he thinks he can't do it, but if you give him the go-ahead, then he must be able to do it. All it takes is "Get the ball, Karch!" and he dives right in -- in a pool, in the canal, in the newspaper bin ... I miss my dog.

Displaced Floridian

Everybody's talking at me.
I don't hear a word they're saying,
Only the echoes of my mind.
People stopping staring,
I can't see their faces,
Only the shadows of their eyes.

I'm going where the sun keeps shining
Thru' the pouring rain,
Going where the weather suits my clothes,
Backing off of the North East wind,
Sailing on summer breeze
And skipping over the ocean like a stone ...

I really do have the intention to write more regularly than my apparent pace. It's not like I don't have the time to sit down and hammer something out; I seem to suffer from a lack of imagination. For those very few friends of mine who might read this and have always been in the "You should write a book!" chorus -- I never have for the very same reason. Not a damn clue what to write about. And don't say all the crazy stuff I did in college, because police are involved and I would like to be in my family's will. Anyhoo, the road to hell, right?

Rewinding back to the point I intended (ahem) to make -- until my creative well springs forth a new life, I'm relying on other writing to at least get me started. Today is brought to you by Harry Nilsson's "Everybody's Talking At Me," found on the Forrest Gump soundtrack, and the letter S, for salt bagel, which I just ate. DON'T JUDGE.

Today the weather is just flat-out shitty. Not overcast, not rainy, not that radio euphemism "fall-like." Just shitty, which translates into a bleak combination of the previous three plus floating pockets of depression and high pressure system of go-jump-into-traffic. Really makes me love the Mid-Atlantic. Like I love getting my pinky toe caught on the corner of my coffee table, or the smell of my own burnt hair when it gets caught in the coil of my hair drier. Gems of life, I tell you.

There are days when I'd sit here and listlessly stare at the rain on the window contemplating my own mortality all Sylvia Plath style, but for some reason this song always puts me in a better mood. You really ought to listen to it to get where I'm going from this point on. (Or go buy what I'm selling, pick up what I'm laying down, or -- Kate W. -- go smell what I'm stepping in.) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6-_R-FDZ438 I mean, it's actually a fairly melancholy song. Do two sads equal a happy when music from the '70s is involved? Interesting theory. Must discuss later. But in any event, This Song = Happy KT.

Without going deep into it, because Lord knows I don't want my blog to be KT's ruminations on human existence and what is the soul, I think this song just strikes a heart chord of mine relating back to the old homestead. When you have lived and loved a place all your life, a little piece of it lodges itself so deeply into your being that, in a way, you never left.

This winter will be the first I have ever spent outside of Florida. (Yes, I have seen snow. No, I did not eat the yellow snow. I am a terrible skier, but I rock the ass-sliding down the side of a mountain because I am too wussy to ski a black diamond. DON'T JUDGE.) It's going to be pretty miserable I imagine. Today I needed three hands: one to hold the umbrella, one to hold the bottom part of my coat closed, and one to keep the umbrella from flipping inside-out. Hell, it's not even Thanksgiving and my knuckles already look like a lumberjack's and I tried wearing flip-flops again to work today; my toes de-thawed at approximately 10:45 am. Did you know rain makes wool really heavy and smelly? Huh.

I guess what this song reminds me of is that even when my bones are cold, I remember what it's like to be warm. People stop and stare, maybe at the silly Florida girl, but I wonder if they've ever smelled the rain on orange blossoms.