Thursday
I’m pre-empting the post that I had planned for tonight.

I talked (IM’ed) with a friend of mine from back home a little while ago. That’s something of an understatement. Don is one of my best friends; we’ve known each other for twelve years now. He, his wife and his son are extended members of the family. He told me two stories tonight:

  1. He is the new band director at the school where my stepfather is one of the assistant principals. He had the band warming up for practice in the school cafeteria. The cafeteria, it turns out, is directly below the room (I think he said the library) where a meeting was under way; and, yes, my stepdad was in this meeting. So… the band starts playing. LOUDLY. The song: Baby Got Back, by Sir Mix-a-Lot. Someone came downstairs and asked them to stop.
  2. He and his wife had to put their dog, Brandy, to sleep tonight. she was nine-years-old, if I remember correctly. She had gotten out of the yard and was hit by a car. Brandy was a beagle. Brown with white on her belly and feet. She was a little hyper. She could be annoying. She loved (maybe “craved” would be a better word) attention. She always wanted to know what was going on. She liked ice cream sandwiches… well, she liked to like the paper that they came in. She wasn’t just a dog. She was… part of the family.

Dog Years – Rush, from the Test For Echo

In a dog’s life
A year is really more like seven
And all too soon a canine
Will be chasing cars in doggie heaven

It seems to me
As we make our own few circles ’round the sun
We get it backwards
And our seven years go by like one

Dog years — It’s the season of the itch
Dog years — With every scratch it reappears

In the dog days
People look to Sirius
Dogs cry for the moon
But these connections are mysterious

It seems to me
While it’s true that every dog will have his day
When all the bones are buried
There is barely time to go outside and play

Dog years — It’s the season of the itch
Dog years — With every scratch it reappears
Dog years — For every sad son of a bitch
Dog years — With his tail between his ears

I’d rather be a tortoise from Galapagos
Or a span of geological time
Than be living in these dog years

In a dog’s brain
A constant buzz of low-level static
One sniff at the hydrant
And the answer is automatic

It seems to me
As well make our own few circles ’round the block
We’ve lost our senses
For the higher-level static of talk

That’s all.

Peace.