The big dog was never far from her side, when she ventured beyond the confines of her house. She was seen clutching his leash as they walked through the park, or tethering it to a conveniently placed light pole outside the corner store.

It was the same every week â“ the dog would become a heap of shaggy brown fur, with only the tip of his nose moving, twitching as he scented everyone and everything near by. Inside the store, she would purchase the same three things: chocolate milk, milano cookies, and a single twelve-inch bully-stick, the last a treat for her canine friend.

She would clutch the brown paper bag in one hand and the end of the leash in the other, and the two friends, one with a sloppy grey ponytail, and the other with a scruffy plume of tail curled over his back, would make their slow procession down the block, through the park, and back home.

It came as no surprise that on the day she died, the large brown dog passed on as well. He was lying at her feet, when they found her locked in forever-sleep, still sitting in her favorite chair.

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I have no pretty words today, just mundanity:

Today has been a festival of geekiness: caught the premier of Threshold, which I quite enjoyed, and will continue to watch, and am now watching Battlestar Galactica after seeing two hours of SG-1. I think I'm going to be watching far too much tv this year, as I'm hooked on The West Wing, Lost, ER, Strong Medicine and Gilmore Girls, as well as this geekier fare. And Surface or Surfacing or Whatever they're calling the thing that they were calling Fathom, begins on Monday.

We so need a 2nd TiVo.

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If you either:

LEASE your vehicle

OR

own a HYBRID vehicle,

and are willing to answer a few questions for use in an
article, please leave a comment here, or email me: melissa AT missmeliss DOT com.

Thank you.

On our evening stroll tonight, Cleo sniffed all the storm-drenched stuff her little doggy nose could find, at one point attempting to roll in what looked like (but probably was not) an innocent pile of fallen leaves.

Zorro was not as interested in sniffing, though he did leave 'messages' at almost every corner and alternating trees. Mostly, he was happy to bound through the damp grass of our park, his tail curled in happy-dog mode.

As we rounded the corner onto our block, I looked up at the sky, and saw a double rainbow, with a flock of birds flying the arc between the two. Alas, the camera was at home.

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This afternoon, I left the cozy lamplit living room to stand outside in the rain and merge my soul with the elements. It was not so much a downpour as a multidirectional misting, with occasional streams of conventional rain, and it would have been lovely encased in the sliding glass and tiles of a shower stall, though there was something special about such bliss descending from above, as well.

For the first time since summer began, the air was cooler after the rain than before, and I smiled about that, as well, and took the dogs for a pre-dinner walk.

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Late at night when the room is pitch black and my thoughts are the unhurried type that come just before sleep, I find myself sensing a presence at my bedside. She has cool hands and a soothing aura, and smells like my grandmother, and when she comes, I ease into restful sleep.

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Dear Muse,

Why must you sit on that lounge chair sipping margaritas and laughing at me in your oh-so-coquettish, and yet somehow silvery, voice, the one laced with irony at the fact that you sprinkle me with creative glitter only at the most inopportune times.

Three in the morning, Muse dahling, is not the time at which you should gift me with thoughts and ideas, nor should you remove all my excitement and imagination during the entire long stretches of day and afternoon, which are set aside for just such visitations.

Why can't you gift me with a little bit of Plot to temper the Characters who spring to life fully formed when you arrive, and dance mockingly around me after you leave, because I have no idea how to arrange decent verbal choreography?

Why, I ask. Why?

Must I become a curmudgeonly alcoholic in Hemingwayesque fashion, or would you prefer that I lock myself away from the sum of all humanity like a Victorian spinster who churns out tome after tome (all in three-part novels, of course)?

I can't even threaten to hide the key to the liquor cabinet so that your debauchery will at least be sober, not drunken, for you have the gall to not even be REAL, but only a fantasy whom I blame for lack of talent, if not lack of drive and ambition.

But here's a threat, oh Muse of mine, that you would do well to heed: I could return to corporate America, wear business drag and spend money on weekly manicures instead of subscriptions to Writer's Digest, and then where would you be?

Oh, don't tell me.
I already know.

You'd be partying with some midwestern housewife who would end up making a fortune writing edgy mysteries while her kids are at soccer practice and ballet lessons.

And I'd STILL have your laughter echoing in my brain.

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Tagged by , I offer the following 20 random things about me:

1. I am not a morning person, unless being up until three AM on a regular basis counts.
2. I read a lot. Want proof? My bookblog is at Zenitopia.com.
3. I don't speak fluent Italian, but when I speak Spanish, I do it with an Italian accent.
4. A part of me still wants to live in 1920's Paris.
5. I'm a sucker for old movie musicals. Especially when they include Danny Kaye.
6. I have an art supply fetish, but I don't know how to draw.
7. I don't like used books – they smell funny.
8. And yet, I appreciate it when a friend gives me one of her old books, because I know I've been given a personal treasure.
9. I really don't drink as much coffee as I let people think I do. I've even cut my Starbucks visits to once or twice a week.
10. I can't sleep with the bedroom door open.
11. I love cool shoes, but I live in flip-flops and sneakers.
12. My favorite pen, for every day use, is the Sarasa retractable roller ball, in navy blue. If it came in fine-point I'd be deliriously happy.
13. I don't like to write much any more (as in actually write, with a pen, not as in compose pieces of writing), because carpal tunnel has caused my handwriting to deteriorate so much that I'm embarrassed.
14. Last night, I bought two Silhouette novels for 'research' purposes. I want to write one.
15. My favorite ice cream flavors are macapuno (it's a kind of coconut) and green tea – not together, though.
16. I don't like animation.
17. I love radio plays. I think they make the listener use their imagination to enhance the experience.
18. I love movies and books about storms, sharks, ships, and the sea.
19. As much as I miss living in a more urban environment, I'm sort of glad I don't.
20. I fantasize about buying an island and starting my own country, but really, I'd rather live in a small coastal village with good coffee and a great bookstore. Someday…

I've been told to tag people, but I'm not into that, so, if you wanna do this, go ahead. :)

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The power outage in Los Angeles earlier today knocked my webhost off the planet. Truly, they did a great job of bringing things back, but I was without email for the bulk of the day, and blogless until about 12 minutes ago.

I never realized how many minutes are devoted to blogsurfing, until I lost access to my blogroll.

Truly, having a husband who works in the industry helped – he explained how I could be certain the problem was THEM and not ME, and then reminded me of what was really wrong. It's stuff I sort of know anyway, but I don't use the information on a daily basis, so I tend to forget details.

The worst part of the day? The last ninety minutes when I could ftp into my site and SEE the files, but apache hadn't been started, so there was no actual web access.

Despite this, I still love DreamHost to bits.

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I can hear his breathing as I fall asleep with his tiny furry body curled up against my abdomen. He seems so small at night, not that he's ever large, but when he's sleeping, when he's all curled up, I realize just how tiny he really is.

He shifts, when I turn over, waking just enough to re-settle against the small of my back. His breathing changes slightly, and while I can't see him, I can tell he's doing a visual perimeter patrol of the room. Just in case.

When morning comes, he is tucked beneath my armpit, breathing in that nearly unnoticable way that small dogs do when they're resting. My hand, left outside the protection of covers, is an icicle, and I have to move him to claim the warmth of blankets. Not such a bad thing, as I have to pee, anyway.

Instantly awake, he jumps from the bed before I'm even sitting up completely, and I pad barefoot into the bathroom. I know from the jingle of tags and his soft doggy 'ooof!' that he'll be curled up in my spot when I return.

Indeed he is. I scoop him into my arms, and bury my nose in his ruff – the fur at the nape of his neck – he smells vaguely of cinnamon and honeysuckle, and not at all like a dog. I scratch his ears and tell him he's a good boy, and then put him back on the bed, where he presses himself into the gap between Fuzzy's pillows and mine. (My husband, it should be noted, sleeps soundly through all of this.)

I reclaim my spot on the bed, lying on my side, and facing the windows, not the dog. He reaches out with a single tiny paw, and places it on my shoulder, reminding me of his presence, and then he sighs softly, and his tags jingle, and I know he's resting his chin on the corner of my pillow.

Sleep carries us both to dreamland, where I sit in a cafe and sip coffee with Dorothy Parker. I wonder what he dreams about. Probably cheesy treats and warm sunny decks to lie upon. Or maybe, just maybe, a pillow of his own.

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