Winter Solstice (Whew!)

This week has been yet another of my many, many crazy weeks in San Antonio. My electricity went out, and when I went to examine the meter, well, there was no meter. When the CPS folks came out they said it was a common thing to have your meter stolen by someone whose electricity was cut off and whose own meter had been locked. They said it takes a while to trace, so if successfully rigged, the thief will have free electricity for a short time before s/he's caught. Seems a sad crime to me, so I wasn't so much mad as thankful that I had 1. enough money to pay my own electric bill and 2. just bought the battery-powered, stick-it-anywhere INSTAbulb as a joke gift for a white elephant gift exchange at work. That thing is pretty damn handy when someone steals your meter, let me tell you. The white elephant present was promptly replaced with The Perfect Tortilla, and I was good to go until my lights were restored. In other news, the work week was stressful, and my new medication made me break out in hives all week which, as you can imagine, made me quite lovely to look at.

So Saturday eventually came. Whew! Yesterday was Winter Solstice, and it was beautiful outside, just a little cool. Chris and I went to the River Walk to see the lights and dine at Boiler House at Pearl. The food was fantastic, and the service was just shy of okay. It was a small-plate place that had an amazing quinoa with zucchini and golden raisins (soaked in Moscato, so I ordered a Moscato to accompany it). Since fancy for us is usually Outback, it was a nice treat to ourselves. I always feel somewhat awkward at really nice restaurants, mainly because I devour food as if it might run away from me if I don't. It's a bad habit and, like in many other aspects of my life, I am trying to slow it down. The lights were lovely (not in a hives way, but in a real way), and the time was wonderful. My husband has been traveling a lot lately, and my stress levels (for many reasons) have been off the charts. So our night out was especially magical.

In writing news: I'm writing a lot, looking forward to AWP, and applying to residencies where I can finish my Rattle book. More soon.

Happy Everything to All.

Getting Yelled At By Neighbors ... Again

My dog, a Blue Heeler named Buddy, watches every move I make with detached interest. I sometimes feel as though I am his personal reality TV star. After all, he follows me from room to room, even sitting outside the bathroom when I go. This never bothered me; in fact, I found my short spunky shadow a reassuring, accepting presence in my life.

Because I'm off work, I am beginning to notice that his clingy behavior is getting worse. He's expecting too much from me: walks five times a day and pets 24/7, even as I sit in my cushy office chair, attempting something literary. When I leave the house to meet with friends or run errands, he pouts--this is the one time that he refuses to look my way. With the jingle of keys and the turn of a knob, Buddy sighs loudly and curls up on the couch, facing anywhere but the front door I will selfishly exit.

Buddy is the first dog I've owned since I was a kid. He's a lapdog, rarely hyper, and he never barks unless threatened by another dog. And even then his bark is low, a hybrid growl-bark that seems to say "Back up," or more likely "Get the fuck away from me."

When out with friends, I speak of Buddy as they do their children. "Guess what Buddy did today?" I'll ask eagerly to hesitant gazes. "I'm kind of worried," I'll go on; "he seems less social than other dogs." Friends will listen and nod, and fellow childless, dog-owning friends will match my stories and sometimes raise the bar, including the far more dramatic tale of say, a Lab jumping out of a second story window or a Chow biting the UPS guy.

OK, so here's the problem: I baby my dog. This wasn't an actual problem, really, until it was pointed out to me--rudely--by a neighbor. I was walking Buddy in the courtyard of my apartment complex (where dogs are allowed) when he stopped, as dogs do, to smell a bush. I stopped too, only to hear a shrill voice scold me: "Get that dog," it said.

I looked around to find a short elderly woman with close-cut curls and schoolmarm glasses, frowning. "What?" I said, confused by her demanding tone.

"I said ... Get that dog!! You need the dog whisperer, that's what you need. You better get him." She gestured to Buddy, who was now peeking out from under the bush, not exactly afraid, but understandably wary of the hollering woman.

Being a writer, my initial reaction to this expression of insanity was to tell the woman to speak slower as I grabbed for my Moleskine and pen. Instead, I asked calmly why she felt the need to yell at me, a person she doesn't know, when my dog was merely sniffing a bush.

"What did you say to me?" she screamed. Yes, screamed.

Not quick to repeat myself, I simply yanked lightly on Buddy's chain and continued on my way. Buddy followed, reluctantly, and then he stopped again, this time to smell the cement sidewalk. I stopped, too.

"Get that dog! Get that dog!"

"I think YOU can walk another way, walk around us, or wait," I said firmly. Then, I did repeat myself, "And what makes you think you can talk to a person you don't know like that?"

She just stared. I shrugged, fighting the tingle of exhilaration one gets during the start of an argument or fight. I yanked Buddy onward, resolving not to turn back around. As we walked away (of course) she began again: "I said that because I don't trust dogs, and you're obviously not the pack leader here."

"I no longer care what your crazy-ass reason is," I yelled back, not turning around. But, as I consciously kept Buddy close, I realized that he resisted as I yanked him along. He stared up at me as if to say, what are you doing? And, I realized that the woman might be right. Perhaps I should work a little harder to train Buddy, stop treating him like a child, and maybe think about my reasoning for spoiling him. But, if I do need to work on my dog owner skills, I can only hope my neighbor works on her people skills.