||[Apr. 4th, 2010|09:25 pm]
Portia has managed to injure her foot. It happened while she was out Saturday morning. After she'd had an hour or so outside I went to the garage and found her waiting in the rafters. She limped when she came down. I think perhaps she got into a fight, though I'd heard none. She might have gone too far from the house for the sound to carry to the closed rooms. |
I thought the paw would improve after she rested, but today it seemed as bad. She still won't walk on it, and hobbles about the house looking pathetic. Despite the injury she insisted on going outside again this morning. I went with her to keep her out of trouble and had to pick her up and bring her back in when she tried to go across the street. She was not pleased, but was not sufficiently displeased to avoid spending much of the day on my lap. If her foot does not show improvement by tomorrow I fear she might have to see a vet (none are available here on Sundays.) That's apt to be costly, but if the injury is serious I can't just let it go.
While accompanying the cat outside this morning I was chilled by gusty winds despite the bright sun. Later the day turned gray and blustery, and rain began falling by late afternoon and is falling still. It will be near freezing tonight. As this is the sort of storm apt to cause a power outage I've raised the thermostat to 68 degrees. If we lose power that will at least buy me an extra half hour or so of tolerable chilliness before I have to remove myself (and the cat) to the back room with its gas heater and its leaky roof. There'll be time to shower before the house turns freezy at least. Such a life. I'm glad of the continuing rain, though. Maybe as cold as it is there will be snow in the higher mountains. We could use that.
by Wendell Berry
I was born in a drouth year. That summer
my mother waited in the house, enclosed
in the sun and the dry ceaseless wind,
for the men to come back in the evenings,
bringing water from a distant spring.
veins of leaves ran dry, roots shrank.
And all my life I have dreaded the return
of that year, sure that it still is
somewhere, like a dead enemy's soul.
Fear of dust in my mouth is always with me,
and I am the faithful husband of the rain,
I love the water of wells and springs
and the taste of roofs in the water of cisterns.
I am a dry man whose thirst is praise
of clouds, and whose mind is something of a cup.
My sweetness is to wake in the night
after days of dry heat, hearing the rain.