Getting out of the house

Every day I go for a walk with the dogs (Big Pup and Little Pup - names changed to protect the innocent). Usually it involves them dragging me along at the end of the dog's lead. One dog or the other has to be tethered all the time or they race off to the creek to cause trouble, so when we're out walking, one of them is always on the lead. And I am necessarily attached to the other end of that lead. And they are not often inclined to stroll. I've tried to teach them to walk sedately, but not to the extent of actually teaching them anything. (I know. Bad dog owner! Bad, bad dog owner!)

As we made our riotous progress the other day - them running, me stumbling - I tried to devote due attention to my poor dear feelings of rattiness and desolation (it was my birthday). But those damn dogs just have no respect. They left me no time to be melancholy, and what's more depressing than that? I was driven to fast-paced despair, thinking: "So this is what my life has become!" This well-rehearsed statement usually cues the boo-hoo-hoos, but this time something unusual happened: it made me feel optimistic. This is what my life has become. Become. In a state of becoming. Not fixed and concrete and permanent, no! I'm floaty, airy, swaying stuff in motion. I'm making this life, not inhabiting it.

If the dogs were impressed by this sudden enlightenment, they didn't let on.