Aimless

After my last post I didn't want to look at this blog for a while. But now I am back. I had a number of topics lined up for today's post, but it is difficult to come up with pithy little comments or sly, witty comments, or deep, philosophical insight when a random clanking noise is going on five feet behind a person.

That would be Rhys, practicing his Eskrima bladework with the pendulum knives he hung from our living room ceiling. Very Poe-ish, but for the lack of sepulchural atmosphere.

In other news, the sun is shining (though not for much longer) and there's flowers and stuff around. Also, day after tomorrow I leave for Pantheacon, which should be a fun weekend.

And that's all, except for my horrible diet, which is working but not fast enough. The question is, will I lose the weight and become accustomed to a lifetime of deprivation, or will I commit armed robbery on a bakery truck? Or if it is both, which will happen first?

We buried Jack last night. We think his going was not painful, as the vet gave him a large dose of painkillers before putting him down. The house is very different without Jack. I don't know yet what sort of legacy Jack has left, but I know things will not be the same.

It was dark by the time Rhys got back from the vet's, and we toasted Jack with Jack Daniels by the light of the moon and stars. He certainly had heart.

Sad

Today is the worst day. Rhys is driving Jack to town right now to have Jack put down. It hurts so much to have to end the life of our beautiful, powerful, graceful dog, but we can't think of any safe alternative.

Jack was always difficult to work with; it was hard to find ways to motivate him. But his problems with aggression didn't start until just after Thanksgiving, when he began to growl and snarl at me, and my husband, and get in fights with other dogs. He rushed me several times, and we had to keep him on tie-down so that people would not be at risk of bites. We neutered him and took him to a trainer. The trainer we went to said that Jack had dominance aggression, and advised us to control his personal boundaries by using kennels and tie-downs, and to schedule his days intensively with organized training, feeding, and play times.

This worked really well for about 2 weeks, and then he went right back to the growling, snarling, and rushing. On more than one occasion he hit his mouth against me in what would have been a bite if he had not been muzzled. He attacked my husband during feeding, and only quick reflexes prevented a bite. Then he attacked my husband in the car, and would have severely wounded him were it not for the muzzle. Throughout all this, we have been working with him on general obedience, trying to show him where his place in the family is. His manners on the lead did improve, but in and around the house and cars he remained a constant threat.

So we have decided that he is too dangerous to keep training, since he is not showing improvement in the home. I feel so ashamed that I am unable to help him. We even discussed (many times) keeping him outside in the big pen, and only letting him out to hunt (Jack is a superb pig tracker). However, his repeated attacks on us show that he is too much of a liability to keep, since he is easily big and strong enough to severely injure or kill someone.

I am sorry, Jack. You are my big, beautiful dog who is too brave to back down from anyone or anything, ever. I have seen you hold at bay a 300-lb boar. I have watched you run across the summer-dry grass, almost invisible because your coat is the same color. I love you. When I tried to pet you for the last time, you growled at me. I still love you. Goodbye.

Trolls Ignore Entropy; Or, Everything's Broken

If I make some truly insightful comments on entropy, trolls, and the rise of order from chaos, will my washing machine work properly again?

It's odd how when I count up all the broken things in my life and balance them against the things which aren't broken, a whirling vortex of doom opens up before me as I realize that the busted-up junk greatly outnumbers the useful, value-retaining material goods. I am sliding into junkyard oblivion with all the crap that I don't know how to repair. I understand now why the hillbilly stereotype includes a front yard filled with rusted-out cars, trucks, old refrigerators, dead washing machines, and so forth; it's a pain to drive it the two hours to the dump, and besides, your husband thinks he might be able to use it someday.

But the nice part about living in paradise, which is where I believe I live when I am able to ignore the landslides, ticks, poison oak, rattlesnakes, grouchy husbands, and psychotic, snarling dogs, is that I can ignore the junkyard-like catastrophe I call a driveway, look through the mist and the trees to the hills around me, and enjoy the peace of living in clean air, far away from all the annoying people other than my DH.

And when my washing machine finishes its life cycle, as it is apparently about to, I can replace it with a less complex sytem, like the James washer. Because simple systems are less subject to entropy, right? Though when I think about it, I moved out here thinking that life in the woods would be simple, I could live like a hermit, think long, slow thoughts, and just plain be. Never mind the complexities of solar energy systems, plumbing and large appliance repair (yes, a two-hour drive to the nearest town does make fixing large items such as . . . washing machines . . . more logistically, emotionally, and physically challenging), and the heart-rending choices (should I just shoot those fucking raccoons, or what?) one must make when living mostly in the wilderness.

I think I intended this post to be philosophical, but when I look it over, mostly what I see is a complaint about my washing machine. Which is ok, because that machine really does suck, and besides, it's a pain gassing up the small generator to run the damn thing. Can't wait for the new washer to arrive, and then I can start my campaign to get my man to help me schlep the old one back to my mother (three and a half hours away; involves toting washer down stairs, hefting it into the back of the Suburban where it may not fit since we recently installed a dog kennel for the insane dog Jack, driving it down a 15-mile rutted dirt road, then carrying it down a cat-poop-infested dirt path to Mom's damp and rotting cellar). Then again, we could tell her she needs to pick it up herself in her Honda Civic.