dogs and the lack thereof, and what to do about it

Since Angus' passing, I've been telling myself over and over again what a relief it is not to have to take care of a dog. I drive into the barn at night and sit in the car for a minute, thanking God that my workday is over and I'm home . . . and that I don't have to rush to the house to let a bursting-bladder dog outdoors. I do have more time. But I don't do anything with that unused time except sleep and think too much. 
When I think too much I get sad. 
I have been very sad. 
I identified a great deal with Hyperbole and a Half's "depression" posts. 

Husband and I talked about dogs . . . should we get another? The cost of the medical treatment! The pain of the inevitable leaving! Oh, wasn't Marly a good dog? And Chase? And wasn't Max just the cutest little fluffball with the little pink puffy hearts floating out of his head? And Angus was such a little tough guy... Our voices begin to turn nasal and crack; we turn away from each other, embarrassed with our moist eyes and quivering lips.
We've gone by turns, evening after evening looking at every dog on Petfinder and every rescue site we could find and then, for a couple of nights not looking at all to avoid the pain of wishing we could save them all. Or even one. Just one, to keep us company. To be happy to see us when we get home at night. To walk around outside with us, barn to house to shed to hedgerow. To ride with us to the hardware store...

And then Husband saw an Australian cattle dog "free to a great home." The dog is four and a half hours away and he sounds like a dream. I've been corresponding with the owner to learn more.
And today there is an adoption clinic where we might meet a girl dog who has pretty yellow eyes and a red-brown coat.

I have come to question rescue outfits' write-ups. I imagine the rescue people see so much that people do wrong with dogs, that they don't see how dogs are when they can run at will and then get called in to watch movies and snuggle with their owners. Country dogs are different from city or suburban dogs. The poor rescue people see the ones that people left behind or dropped off . . . the unwanted ones who aren't out there running around for fun, so the people think unfenced yards are Bad Things. 

Anyway, it appears that the two of us will expire unless we avail ourselves of a dog buddy.
Stay tuned.

A few passing observations

US Deputy Attorney General James Cole . . .

 

. . . looks like the actor, Dennis Farina.

 

Betty Ford admitted she was addicted to drugs and alcohol, got treatment, 

and everybody stood up and cheered for her. 

Such a heroine. 

Where's my parade?
I'm not bitter, you understand. I'm glad for myself, but it came to mind, 
nudged by recent "news" stories.

Angelina Jolie had her breasts removed [and replaced].

What a brave soul!

Her new breasts will have an even bigger following than her natural ones did.

Me, I just go around with my prosthesis falling out the neckline of my top 
and going PLOP! on the floor 
if I bend over to get a package of copy paper. 
Nobody's elbowing me out of the way to get a look at it.

Oh, don't read this.

Joe asked what I've been up to.
Not much.

Spring came out and went back indoors again. If she comes back I won't trust her. What a thing, to be unable to trust even spring.

Peep is a good and pretty girl. She comes when called . . . a high screechy Peeep! Her own voice is so small that she is almost inaudible. She's working on learning hunting, but she isn't very good at it, except with pieces of gravel and half-dead flies. She's pretty good at catching those. She holds the gravel in her paws and stands up on her haunches and twists her body this way and that way and then throws the gravel and runs like a wild cat, her tail twisting behind her. The flies are disposed of much less histrionically.

My nephew's daughter has been born and celebrated. 
I was the fifth person to hold her on the day she was born, as if we were passing her along the branches of the family tree.
She is able to lift her head at the tender age of six weeks. Clearly, she is an exemplary child: no doubt she will cure cancer, rid the world of war, and feed all the poor. 

Husband and I are being murdered by taxes. As is my wont, I shoulder into my Duty mode, hunker down and stow away money each paycheck like a Christmas Club so that when the bills come I can haul it all out and give it away. The assessor says we've been undervalued for years, and only now are we equitably assessed. If equity is the goal, then why is our valuation the same as somebody with three times as much land, a six-bedroom house and nine outbuildings? 
Husband hunkers down too, but he vents, scaring me. 
"We won't be able to afford a pet!" 
"I'd rather live in the city and pay lower taxes!"
I shrink down inside and wait, quiet.

Robert Benchley died before I was born, and James Thurber passed away in 1961, the same year as my father. I've been rereading them both. Their humor is timeless. They make me laugh out loud.

Signed up for Netflix and we're working our way through our free first month. So many movies I haven't seen! I couldn't watch movies while the poodle boyz were still alive: they would bicker and fight and I'd have to take them out of the room. I'm queuing up movies that Husband has already seen, but he doesn't mind, bless his little heart. Saturday evening is movie night. Husband says, "Don't call it that. All the kids at work have Game Night and Movie Night and Margarita Night. I can't stand to have Nights."