We are rising early in the little yellow house. Like, at freaking DAWN. Okay, I knew this would happen. This is, after all, the fourth puppy I have raised in my sobriety, 22 years of it. Puppies listen only to their own internal clock. At least, for the first couple of weeks. We are easing the Punk into our lives. Oh, hell, the Punk is running the whole show. So, not much time to do anything I like, like make art. Instead, I pick away at pieces that are laying limp on the drawing board. Like I warmed up this sweet owl (which, I found out yesterday as I perused the owl lexicon online, is the only blue-eyed version of this incredible raptor). Also did some explaining, like where is he hanging on, anyway? Meanwhile, finally got the Punk to settle into his midmorning nap so I can get dressed and ready for MY day. Pickle is draped across the bed, little sniffy morning for my Pickle, who needs more time to get with the program than Punkin wants to give her, and told her off first thing. Though, wonder of wonders, he can now negotiate the steps up into the house, so I can leave the two of them in the yard and go make coffee, knowing he will follow his big sister into the house once he has finished his business. And yes, he always does his business. Wonderful little guy, actually, and a wonderful idea. My grief has subsided for the most part. I was comparing Punkin to dear Boo, thinking he is so very mellow and may be channeling my Boo's sweet spirit, except he didn't like to be on his back, when Punkin rolled over and slept that way, just like his darling departed brother used to do. Oh, Punkin was a great idea, for sure.
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