A stray little Lhasa dog showed up at my door around 1:30 a.m. Saturday, and she's been occupying a good chunk of my time. An indoor dog, she's been outside for a long journey. Her once-groomed coat is a nest of matted hair (I've slowly been removing the snarls, as she allows me to do so), and her paws are still tender (they were bleeding when she arrived). What should be a luxuriant long tail is merely an awkward stub, as if she lost it in an accident or an attack. She's been sleeping a lot since she arrived, but two baths and a few meals later, she's perking up a little.
I feel like the main character in the sci-fi flick Avalon, who prepares hearty meals for her basset hound but eats junk food herself, because I've cooked more for the dog than for me. But she's not eating the regular dog food, only soft stuff. This morning, she had the puppy version of potato salad (mashed potatoes mixed with whole milk, hardboiled eggs, a smidge of salt).
I'm not able to keep her, but I have let local veterinary clinics and the Humane Society know she's here. There's little hope, though, that anyone will come forward. My dad and his wife are coming by this afternoon, and perhaps they have found someone at church who wants a dog. She's a perfect house guest, and a sweetheart.
Between all several trips out of town (another one is coming up this weekend), fighting off illness, and taking care of an unexpected visitor, I've fallen far behind in my NaNo writing. Thousands of words behind. Ah, well. I've been writing, though, and that's never a failure.
Photo taken at Little Portion Hermitage in the mountains of northern Arkansas, November 2007.