Making up is fun to do

Someone left the cake out, in the rain. . . . WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?!

So, except for being dehydrated, and maybe a touch hung over. . . it's a bright sun-shiney day.

d'Ohgy did not balk at going to the vet. Now that she's had a taste of doggy day-care, which smelled suspiciously like the vet's office, she thought, that first time; she went right in wagging her tail and expecting to play. She realized her mistake quickly, shaking and sending white hair flying like tiny arrows.

The doctor said that there is a cyst on her neck, which does not seem to be sore. So - as I had been trying to explain to Rolf - she said it was probably the "Don't Hurt Me" alarm rather than the serious injury alarm. They sound about the same, exept the serious injury alarm lasts long enough to bring the whole neighorhood to your garden gate. You have to know greyhounds to understand, but they have a shriek that will scare the wits out of you. We hear it most often when somebody is petting her and they just touch her ears. Not that it hurt, she just doesn't trust strangers to touch her ears because they are sensitive, they've been tattooed, and there is the possibility that trainers at the race track yanked on her ears to get her to behave. It is a frowned on, but common practice. The shriek hardly ever happens. Most everybody can pet her and scratch her ears. . . so when she sounds the alarm, it is never expected.

It was hot. We got home, I threw all my clothes off and laid on the sunroom floor, the ceiling fan on full speed, until my skin was cool to the touch.

Cocktail nearby, dressed in the loosest shorts and shirt I could find; I was working on cutting down the Holly "bushes" that bank our front steps when Rolf got home.

"Are you ok?" I asked, knowing he'd worked 50 hours or so already this week. "You must be tired" I said. "Did things go ok at the status meeting?" He looked so deflated.

Responses were mumbles. . . "could be better. . . nnnno I'm ok. . . could have been worse. . . " as he walked with his briefcase into the house.

"Did I tell you I had another car accident today?," he said as he sat down on the steps, now wearing comfortable clothes and holding a large glass of wine.

"yeah. . just like last time. . of course I was late. . sitting at the light reading messages on my blackberry. . the light turned green and I hit the accelerator only to discover that the car in front of me hadn't actually moved, because the light hadn't actually tuned green. . great start to the day . . so of course, I was already late getting to the meeting. . . " a deep sigh and long draft of his wine follows the unfinished thought.

There is a team of road bikers that pass in front of our house every Tuesday and Thursday. I'm digging in the garden, Rolf is sitting on the steps talking; about the accident; work; the house we hope to buy and flip; oh! Oh! and the big news:

Our vacation to Provincetown in August is screwed up. Our host is not going. Now we need two or three more people to go with us or we have to come up with $2,000. And it is the best house.

Anyway, we're talking about all this when the biker's fly by. It is so cool. They all have their lycra bike suits on, usually black shorts and brilliantly colored shirts and helmets.

"God, I love my house" he says. The packs of bikers keep flying by, and I remember when we ran the marathon and people were cheering for us. I want to cheer for the bikers, but the sight of them, the memory, the garden, and the beautiful day have me on the verge of tears and I can't make any sound.

So!" he says. . "Are you going to feed me, or what? And is there going to be any sex tonight? And am I going to be involved?" he joked with out laughing, but with smiling eyes.