Miserable events. How does one invite misery when one leaves home and hearth only to shop for necessities? Does one practice continuously or is it through lack of practice one blunders into miserable situations?
The dog wants out in the wee hours. It makes noises and bites until it receives its way. Once out into the cold, cold air, it plays with leave’s and bite’s upon ankles all ready running blood from prior attacks. And doesn’t do its business.
Once back inside, one discovers the reason why it didn’t do its business. It only wanted the company of a living organism. It must be lonely to be a single dog.
Being up, last night’s dishes seemed reasonable so I began washing them. The thought that a fetus feeding must translate into the misery of the continuing battle of parent and child after birth.
I had to define that in my head, somewhat. I’ve always assumed the fetus feeds on the mother continuously, every hour, all the time. Yet, when birthed the miserable little wretches feed every two hours, then every four and that four hour thing seems to continue throughout, fortunately or unfortunately viewed from your aspect or theirs, life.
The thought, from all that thinking, was how much more healthy, larger, brighter, etc., would the entity be if pre-birth, one could determine when, in terms of timing, a fetus ate and feed the new born at those time frames. The problem of quantity seemed important, but I couldn’t feature how, nor how one would measure either to show results if instituted as regimen.
I skipped the problems of waste disposal which really is one of the primary factors in my misery, isn’t it?
Having washed my hands in the harsh and abrasive Dawn Dish Detergent and gotten my nails clean, I opened the computer and found further signs of my misery.
What, thought I, were geese doing in the ocean. The creature’s are root and grass eaters and the oceans hardly support their choices of feeds.
Yes. Thirty seconds after that thought, came the realization that there are large bodies of fresh water in the world requiring bridges. This business of staying at home and observing farm ponds, not large enough to require major engineering, is detrimental to ones brain cells.
Misery! Thy name is mine.
Drifting, as I have from subject to subject, I will return to dogs. Last evening the puppy bloodied my ankles insisting on going out. GAWD was there. GAWD is jealous as I’ve explained. This mornings biting episode was because GAWD was there. Now later, GAWD is again here and the puppy is crazy with bother, and I discover that the puppy is now jealous of the attention GAWD receives and wants his share.
Could it be that twins in the womb are as equally uncaring? My share demanded. That impulse carried through birth into real life (disregarding the concept of life before birth, if you will. I’d rather not argue the point now. I’m miserable enough, thank you).
Quite possibly I owe a certain explanation to the readers making it this far: I do not hate children. An adult may resent children, but cannot ever hate them. An adult on adult is somewhat different. I also like people. But it is adult people that create problems. And by now one may assume that my name misery has come no where near being addressed in this entry, mostly because it has nothing to do with what I have been writing about.
See you all tomorrow.
From the reaches,