Oh, The Shame...

Ennui is a good word to describe my attitude of late.  Winter, even a mild one as we've had, does that to me.  My friend Linda and I went through a period of giving each other points for chores and tasks performed throughout the day.  That worked as a goad until she got so far ahead all I could see was her dust, and I don't need to say what I think about dust.  Last night she mentioned a wish list that included Skyping with me so we could "have dinner together."  I hate to disappoint, but doubt that's ever going to happen.  I avoid "selfies" like the plague so as not to give little children nightmares.  (After a certain age, the camera is not kind.)  I did say that I'd gotten as far as making a list of my own, a list of things that need doing around the property and that I've done my best to ignore.  Part of the problem is that the list is so long it's a tad overwhelming and another part is that I'm so good at procrastinating.  I'm not talking about little piddly stuff.  There are fences that need repair and the shop and Steve's part of the barn need a major, major clean out, for starters.  Smart gal that she is, Linda asked what was the easiest thing I'd written down.  Given that the weather has been so good the last few days, I decided that picking up the fallen branches blown down by the winds in every yard and under every tree and hauling them to the burn pile would be my choice.  Now that I've voiced my plan, I'm committed.  I couldn't bear the shame of not following through.  This just might work.

Bessie Anne has always been a "You and me, Mom" kind of dog, and would follow me from room to room, indoors and out.  As her, for lack of a better term, dementia progresses, her need to be close has a tinge of desperation.  She becomes frantic if we're not within arm's reach.  This includes our morning walkabout.  It used to be that I'd stay on the deck while she went down the slope to take care of business, check the perimeter, and walk amongst the turkeys.  Now she stands at the steps looking over her shoulder and whining until I walk down the drive with her.  It's okay; it's a pleasant way to start our day.  In the house, she might not see me leave the room or, confused, not know which way I've gone.  She's never been much of a barker, but now she calls out, "Where are you?  Come back!"  I know that dogs reportedly do not see color, and Bess no longer sees well, period.  What a shame to miss the glory of last night's sunset.