I have been taking a bit of a blogging break, as if you didnt notice.
Actually, I kinda feel like I have gone feral.
Like most women in the throes of menopause, going feral is an understatement.
Bea in her first heat cycle...she can identify.
I am sure my husband feels like Brynn does on many days. He comes home from work whistling a happy tune until he sees me glaring at him - then I suddenly lunge for his neck, teeth bared.
Yep, gone feral. The only antidote is chocolate, Cheetos Twists and Cherry Garcia.
I went feral on my computer too.
I started to resent blogging. I looked at the computer with anger in my eyes, steam coming out of my ears, feeling tethered and trapped.
Really do all the people reading my blog want to read drivel? All I write lately is crap, punctuated by nice pictures of happy dogs doing happy dog things.
I was spiraling into a pity pot of no escape. So I went outside and played with happy dogs dogs and grumpy sheep.
As if I wasnt feeling bad enough about my life...I put Bonnie on sheep.
As I ran huffing and puffing around the field after the furry tank I asked myself "What the hell were you thinking?"
Actually, Bonnie is a nice little dog. Scratch that...she ain't little. She is built like a tank. A furry Sherman tank.
Bonnie is 1/4 aussie. It is fairly evident in her working style.
She would be a nice AHBA trial dog. She can do an outrun, but prefers not to get more than 50 feet away from me. She loves to work in pens, close up, and driving would be fun for her.
However Bonnie's heart is just not in it. Bonnie's true passion is being right at my feet. I know this...but part of me still wants to try, hoping it will change.
Bonnie wants me to accept her just as she is. A wee bit Aussie.
And a little bit rock & roll.
Obviously, going feral has not improved my writing ability.
Let me tell you about the goldfinch in our backyard.
My husband was out slinging chunks of meat over hot flames in the back yard when he hollered "Bring your camera - goldfinch in the apple tree!"
That is like screaming SALE to a group of shopaholics in withdrawl.
I raced to the door camera in hand where .... behold .... among the lovey pink & white blossoms sat a handsome goldfinch. Washington's state bird.
I was in photography nirvana. The light was lovely and I had the right lens photographing my favorite little bird in the perfect setting, accenting his bright colors.
He was so cute...then I noticed he was bloody.
Great, something went feral on his arse....
Of all the goldfinches to land in my apple tree...this one had to have a bloody wing. Guess this is why they make photo editing software.
Before
Poof, blood gone.
At least I can pretend he was healthy.
When I went to bed that night I worried about that little goldfinch. Was he okay? What attacked him? Why was he bleeding? Was he going to make it through the night? What if he falls dead from the tree?
Then I started to cry.
About a freaking GOLDFINCH! I went through half a box of tissue, a blubbering sobbing disaster.
Yep, I have gone feral....right into menopause.
Sh*t
Actually, I kinda feel like I have gone feral.
Like most women in the throes of menopause, going feral is an understatement.
Bea in her first heat cycle...she can identify.
I am sure my husband feels like Brynn does on many days. He comes home from work whistling a happy tune until he sees me glaring at him - then I suddenly lunge for his neck, teeth bared.
Yep, gone feral. The only antidote is chocolate, Cheetos Twists and Cherry Garcia.
I went feral on my computer too.
I started to resent blogging. I looked at the computer with anger in my eyes, steam coming out of my ears, feeling tethered and trapped.
Really do all the people reading my blog want to read drivel? All I write lately is crap, punctuated by nice pictures of happy dogs doing happy dog things.
I was spiraling into a pity pot of no escape. So I went outside and played with happy dogs dogs and grumpy sheep.
As if I wasnt feeling bad enough about my life...I put Bonnie on sheep.
As I ran huffing and puffing around the field after the furry tank I asked myself "What the hell were you thinking?"
Actually, Bonnie is a nice little dog. Scratch that...she ain't little. She is built like a tank. A furry Sherman tank.
Bonnie is 1/4 aussie. It is fairly evident in her working style.
She would be a nice AHBA trial dog. She can do an outrun, but prefers not to get more than 50 feet away from me. She loves to work in pens, close up, and driving would be fun for her.
However Bonnie's heart is just not in it. Bonnie's true passion is being right at my feet. I know this...but part of me still wants to try, hoping it will change.
Bonnie wants me to accept her just as she is. A wee bit Aussie.
And a little bit rock & roll.
Obviously, going feral has not improved my writing ability.
Let me tell you about the goldfinch in our backyard.
My husband was out slinging chunks of meat over hot flames in the back yard when he hollered "Bring your camera - goldfinch in the apple tree!"
That is like screaming SALE to a group of shopaholics in withdrawl.
I raced to the door camera in hand where .... behold .... among the lovey pink & white blossoms sat a handsome goldfinch. Washington's state bird.
I was in photography nirvana. The light was lovely and I had the right lens photographing my favorite little bird in the perfect setting, accenting his bright colors.
He was so cute...then I noticed he was bloody.
Great, something went feral on his arse....
Of all the goldfinches to land in my apple tree...this one had to have a bloody wing. Guess this is why they make photo editing software.
Before
Poof, blood gone.
At least I can pretend he was healthy.
When I went to bed that night I worried about that little goldfinch. Was he okay? What attacked him? Why was he bleeding? Was he going to make it through the night? What if he falls dead from the tree?
Then I started to cry.
About a freaking GOLDFINCH! I went through half a box of tissue, a blubbering sobbing disaster.
Yep, I have gone feral....right into menopause.
Sh*t
