Wolves and Genius Philanderers.

Family off, coffee brewed, Watson (my black German Shepherd that looks just like a wolf) pacing around the studio as I blog instead of build the base for my sculpture. Having just collapsed at my feet, I'll snap a pic him for you.

Isn't he glorious?  His beauty easily cancels out the mess beneath the desk.

He's up again.  Pacing...

Some things I need to jot down before art begins in earnest.

So, due to an overwhelming response in sharing this blog site yesterday (hundreds of views on one day compared to the 28 in six years that were all from The Snape)  I decided I will try and write here instead of my journal. Do any of you keep a journal?  For those of us whose minds won't shut off, it's easier to channel the never-ending thoughts onto Molskines or Compositions than to handle the ever-churning brain.

I discovered (due to the companions of PTSD and an anxiety disorder) journaling is much easier than living with every back and neck muscle sprung.  If you're one of those genius/total-neurotic bosom kindreds, I'd be happy to help you get started if interested.  I also discovered that making the journal public helped push through my also-neurotic introversion. 

Because food was involved, our Robert Burns celebration last night was a success.  Kids managed to pull a line or two from the thick brogue recitals, but I'm pretty certain the one thing they'll remember was that Burns had fourteen illegitimate children. Best quotes of the night: 

"He's the Mr Darcy Baby Daddy."  --The Troubadour Child

"It's easy to think people from the past had life figured out.  Guess if someone gets fourteen women pregnant, it's a sign that probably pretty much never happened." --Beast Child 

"Dude's like a rabbit. 'My love for you is like a crap ton of Red Roses.  For all fourteen of you.'" --Viking Child

...and so on and so forth. 

So, we learned about Robert Burns.  Sorry, Scotland, we know he means the world to you. His works are truly incredible, and although I was the only one who could understand the reciting poet, I'm glad for the conversation he sparked in the family.

(Wolf has finally decided to flop down at my feet again, though he keeps huffing as he looks pointedly up at me. What? He also sniffed my healthy pumpkin bread and then moved his head another direction.  Ungrateful fur child. Maybe he realizes he's getting jipped on National Chocolate Cake Day, too.)

The Youngest Child has a tiny dog that she named Mary Margaret.  She is a beast of great and noble bearing for one so compact, which is suitable since her owner gave her the namesakes of Jesus' Mother and a Prime Minister of England.  Sadly, she's been missing for two days.  We searched for her yesterday with no luck. I'm hoping she'll show up at the pound.  My daughter inherited her Mother's anxiety issues, and MM's companionship has helped her sleep at night the past four years. Such a loving animal.  Praying she'll turn up.

Because of Mary Margaret's disappearance, Chaucer, another of our dogs (who factually looks like an aging man's unkempt toupee) took the honored place on the Youngest's bed.  The Snape melted my heart when he brought him in from outside and helped the Youngest bathe him, then delighted with her as the woolly, 7 lb damp mass defied gravity in furniture-clearing leaps of joy absolute.  Chaucer literally consists of a small bit of flesh, bone, and sinew and a great mass of gray/black fuzz.  Somewhere there are four little legs that poke out beneath it, a little head above it,  and a pronounced under-bite is pretty much the only thing that says he's a dog. So, if MM doesn't show up, at least there will be this bundle of cuteness for The Youngest to cuddle.

On a happier note, one little known fact about moi is my obsession with old photographs.  My Mother, who is my partner in crime for this life and the next, found these this last weekend in her and The Historian's local antique market in Germany.  Sigh.  Aren't they beautiful? And how romantic to live in Europe and get to hunt antiques (...dreamy sigh...). Look at those beautiful portraits. Just...stunning.  People are my hobby.  They are endlessly fascinating, alive or in their memorium. 

Enough procrastinating. Watson's constant shifting body language is telling me to get off my lily-whites and get on with it.