As I was climbing out of the car after dropping the Midgets at Grandma’s for one hour while I rushed home to gather pizza ingredients to cook over at Gram’s because the chicken I’d taken out of the fridge to roast had already flown to Stinkyland, the phone rang. Husbot, from the road. All I wanted to do was go inside and not hear any voices for sixty minutes except the ones inside my head. (The good ones.)
I answered. Husbot was driving and he was in a chatty mood. He’d taken the dogs to the vet. My old ornery mixed-breed, June, had her teeth cleaned, he reported. His perfectly behaved middle-aged hunting dog “was collected,” he went on. It took me a moment to realize that he meant Striker had donated his sperm to the doggie donor bank. Striker is a nice dog, and I was happy for him that he’d had a few nice moments there. I tried to picture the procedure. Did they put him in a room with a few issues of FIDO Friendly and a fake leg?
I said it’s a good thing the vet didn’t mix it up, clean Striker’s young teeth and freeze June’s ovaries for future generations. But I admit, what I really wanted to do was say good-bye. I’ll call you later
I love my husband dearly. But I love my silence too. And these days, it’s rarer than a vial full of dog sperm. So here’s another reason why I continue to blog:
It doesn’t involve talking, or listening, or moderating an argument. It is a respite from interaction, sound, and motion. It is everything my life is not.
Did you get enough silence today?
And did you know there was a travel magazine for dogs?