I wrote just that much, October 27, Dear Max, and then I made breakfast for Enzo, took D-Day out for a pee, and a poop too, cut up and washed some beet tops and kale and mustard greens from my farm box, got dressed, gathered everything we need for an this obstacle course event that we were foolish enough to sign up for, took D-Day out for another pee, made another coffee, and here I am.
D-Day is asleep on the couch beside me. His smooth compact bulk is wonderfully comforting. If I want to get writing done, I think I have to start waking up earlier.
D-Day has his own diary. It’s a lot like mine, a chronicle of poop, pee, food, sleep and notes. He’s down to one pee a night most of the time—Good boy!—but last night he regressed as follows:
1:00 Poop and tiny barf
And then the handwriting on the chart changes from mine to Teresa’s because D-Day was barking, whining, scrabbling at the door of his crate, and she rescued me. In short, I moved to the couch to sleep, and she moved into the bed beside D-Day’s crate.
5:00 Pee and bed. [That means she pulled him into bed with her to get a little more sleep for everyone.]
6:40 Pee and poop
8:23 Crate nap—not! [That means a crate nap was attempted and did not take.]
8:30 Pee. Poop discovered behind garbage can obstacle course.
9:15 Crate nap.
It’s 10:00 now, and he’s still asleep in his crate, so I’ll record some other notes that I made this morning:
Me: “What are you doing on your phone?”
Me: “What’s that?”
Enzo: “Just life.”
Kate: “Is that a game?”
Enzo: “Actual life.”
Enzo says that the back of D-Day’s neck smells like Marie Calendars gravy. He’s right, but I’d say it’s more like stuffing and gravy. There’s an herbal element.
I’m remembering to write that only because I just rescued a damp note from his powerful little jaws. It says Marie Calendars.
So you see, my system works.