Yesterday we went to the Art Institute of Chicago, where I saw, for the first time, the permanent collection known as the Thorne Miniature Rooms. The link will tell you more about these displays, but essentially they are miniature replicas of period rooms representing various eras in (mostly) European and American history. Each is displayed as a glass-fronted box slid into the wall, allowing you to peer into into a dollhouse-sized, incredibly detailed room, with glimpses of linked rooms and gardens and street scenes beyond the room's windows. If you are a lover of the children's book The Borrowers, you will adore these rooms. I was entranced.

The photos on the website don't quite give the flavor of the effect of these rooms, partly because they simply look like photos of human-sized period replicas. In fact, most of the rooms are only about a foot square, but they have real parquet floors and actual little desks that lock and unlock and delicate curtains and perfectly turned staircases. Each space is filled with human presence, but there are no replicas of people, and that is part of the charm. They are spaces for imagining the story.

Yesterday was our big trip to Milwaukee to meet H's parents. Originally we'd planned to stay overnight, but hotel prices were too high, so we made a day of it instead--early lunch at a barbecue place, then a walk downtown along the river to look at the Fonzie statue, and finally a very amusing time mini-bowling at a neighborhood dive bar. It was the perfect way to meet new people--light-hearted and simple: the kind of arrangement that J is brilliant at. I don't know how he learned to be so excellently sociable; clearly not from his parents. But we are grateful for his sure touch.

No particular plans for today yet. At the moment I am the only person awake, though the cats are circling like sharks. We may end up at the Art Institute. We may check out the kids' wedding venue--an architectural restoration store that also hosts events. We may grill fish in the courtyard and play some more boardgames. I'm pretty sure we will not track down affordable tickets to the Sox-Cubs game. At the moment the locust trees beyond the alley are twitching in a steady breeze, and the sky is low and gray and rain-gloomy, though no rain is falling.

In the meantime I will sit here alone (except for ravenous cats) with nothing to do but half-doze, glance out the window at pigeons and trees, and read my book. A challenging schedule but I will persevere.

***

Oh, and today is our 34th wedding anniversary. The sentimental storylines are rife.

 Good morning from Pilsen. From my window I am looking down over the alley behind my son's building--a clutter of tall weeds, garages, fences, power poles, garbage cans . . . what Dickens calls a mews in his novels. Rock doves coo in a local gutter. Massive fringed locust trees line the street beyond the alley. Most of the buildings around here are brick--some red, some yellow, and often exuding a rundown European flare, given that the majority date from the early twentieth century, when Pilsen was a Czech enclave. Since then, demographics have switched to mostly Michoacan Mexican, and many of these old Eastern European-style buildings are painted with murals depicting Mexican American history and culture. The effect is jaunty.

Yesterday J, T, and I went to the Lincoln Park zoo and saw some excellent giraffes and a green broadbill that might be the greenest thing I have ever witnessed. 

Then we walked to the lakefront and drank beer and ate loaded fries in a silly beach bar and stared out at the umbrellas and the volleyball players and the jet skiers and the lifeguards and the splashers and the sandcastle makers before wending back to Pilsen for afternoon naps.

J owns a tiny compound composed of a building with two rental apartments on the street side, the carriage house where he lives on the alley side, and a little plant-festooned concrete and decking oasis between them, like a snug secret garden. In the evening we sat around in the courtyard until we got hungry, then strolled down the street to a tent where a man was cooking tacos and ordered a dozen to carry back to the house. The air was soft and pleasant, cicadas buzzing and humming in the locust trees. Our tacos were a sort of heaven, and then we played a board game, and eased our way into sleep.

This visit to Chicago has been exactly what we needed . . . lots of wandering, lots of idle talk, little responsibility. Today we are going on an adventure to Milwaukee to meet H's parents. It seems that Milwaukee is full of strange and varied bowling alleys, and J has reserved us a lane at a tiny place with actual live pinsetters. I am quite looking forward to it.

Our plane was delayed in Portland so we didn't get into Chicago till after 11, which was midnight eastern time. And then we stayed up to eat dinner and visit with the kids, so that accounts for why I'm only waking up now. House is already busy and chattery, so writing is hard. Talk to you tomorrow!

Another torrid night, another sticky morning, and birdsong is such a balm.

This evening we'll be flying to Chicago, so this will be my last home morning for a few days. As a routine, nothing could be less spectacular--sitting alone on a couch at daybreak with a cup of coffee--yet such dim little habits are what soothe me into and out of the clatter of the world. Now, upstairs, the bed creaks; I hear Tom beginning to open and close drawers, hear the thud of his bare feet on the floorboards . . . the workday is yawning and blinking, and soon I will lift my face from these words and turn toward my beloved's smile.

We are looking forward to our travels, which, as travels go, should be easy. We're flying out of Portland, so no connecting bus to Boston, no wanderings through massive barracks. A friend will pick us up at the house and within ten minutes drop us off at the little Jetport, with its mod name and miniature halls. We'll fly directly to Midway, avoiding the angsts of O'Hare, and our son will be there to greet us. The trip sounds so simple, like wafting. I hope it really will be.

So tomorrow morning I will write to you from the urban thickets of the Midwest . . . sausage city, prairie town, big hick burg trembling under the endless rattle of the El. You know the legend, and some of it is true. I'll let you in on some other stories as I bump into them. What I do know: The Red Sox will be playing against the Cubs at Wrigley Field. People will be grilling hotdogs by the big lake. Cats will be a large topic of conversation. I will regret my ignorance of Spanish.

A moment ago I switched off the noisy a/c, and now the house is flooded with birdsong. The neighborhood is very quiet, more like a Sunday morning than a weekday. Summer rhythms . . . yesterday the high school girl who lives across the street lay on her stomach in a strip of grass reading, reading, reading, and I thought I might cry from the sweetness of it. Though of course most anything can make me cry these days. I am leaking tears, just as I did in the months around our move from Harmony. "Don't mind me," I used to tell people. "This always happens."

Still, despite the constant slow drip, I'm getting used to Ruckus's absence--to sitting outside without him, to climbing into bed without him. I can't help but imagine how angry he'd be, watching me manage. He had zero confidence in my survival skills.

Yesterday morning, before the heat kicked in, I worked in the garden--planted second-crop greens, did some weeding, ran the trimmer. Today I'll meet a friend for a walk, then do a bit more weeding, and eventually return to desk obligations as the day warms. I'm waiting for a big new editing project to appear. I've got prep to do for my upcoming Poetry Kitchen class. I suppose I could try out a poem draft, but writing the cat's obituary seems to have sapped my fluency. Unfortunately I'll miss my Thursday poetry group this week as that's the night we're flying out to Chicago. So the only words available will be the ones I stumble over on my own.

I thought maybe yesterday would be an easier day, emotionally, but it wasn't. It was the first day I'd been alone in the house since Ruckus's death, and his absence was everywhere. He was such a social being, always making sure he knew where I was, always close by, whether inside or outside. Without his company, the house and garden feel dead.

I know I'll get over this sensation eventually. So I'm still plodding away at my chores and pretending that I care about them, because one of these days I really will care again. And I know I ought to get another cat sooner rather than later. It's better for me to have a little someone to tend and fuss over.

But this week is not the week. I will continue my sad round for a few more days, and then we'll fly to Chicago into the embrace of our kids and their three rowdy cats, and when I'm home again I'll figure out what to do next.

This morning I'll get into the garden . . . tear out peavines and sow kale seed and salad greens, prune and stake tomato plants, do some weeding and mowing and trimming, and otherwise ready the beds for a few days on their own.

One bit of good news is that my younger son's health issues seem to be abating. In the summers he leads wilderness canoe trips in northern Ontario, but this season has been tough. He started off with a bad ear infection, then had to be evacuated from his trip after he was stricken with full-body hives. The med staff can't figure out what triggered anaphylaxis; best guess is a bite or a sting exacerbated by stress over Ruckus's death. In any case, it was a scary situation, handled deftly. By the time I learned about it (yes, during the conference and, jeez, how much can one person compartmentalize while trying to do a hard job?), he was on a cocktail of meds and responding well, and yesterday he cheerfully told me that they were bringing him back to his campers and he would continue the trip.

No option but to trust. The staff are well trained in wilderness medical emergencies. All I can do is wish him bon voyage.

Almost imperceptibly the early mornings are becoming darker. At 5 a.m., I turn on a lamp and peer into a garden of shadows. A robin sings andante. Heavy air leans a cheek against the open windows.

Last night I slept, really slept, for the first time in more than a week. Writing Ruckus's obituary was a help in that regard, as I knew it would be. When I sent copies to my sons, both were relieved--not just because they were pleased with what I had said but because they knew that framing words around his death would carry me forward.

I wrote the obituary, and then I reread it about a hundred times, off and on throughout the day. That, too, was helpful. Ruckus has entered the land of legend. When the new stories end, the old stories step into their power.

So this morning I feel ready to turn to other responsibilities: post-conference paperwork, unpacking books,  catching up on housework. Because of my state of mind--because I had to compartmentalize my grief so strictly last week--I couldn't keep you apprised of how well the conference was going. In truth, it was transformative. Bringing in Gretchen and Gwyneth, expanding our learning into body-thought, had a tremendous influence on the collaborative projects that the participants created. I heard new freedoms in their poem drafts, in their conversations. I felt these new freedoms in myself and in the collaborative lessons that Teresa and I were constructing on the fly. We left the conference with a great sense of anticipation.

I don't know what will happen next year in Monson. But I am already excited.

On Thursday evening Tom and I will fly to Chicago to spend a few days with our beloveds. Given our newly lonely household, the timing is good, despite the breathlessness of shifting so quickly from one sort of travel to another. In the meantime, I will try to learn to be without my dear little noisemaker. I will try to look inside myself, outside myself. The days march on.

* * *

During the conference, I received notification that one of my essays appears in Vox Populi's list of most-read works. I wrote this piece quite a while ago, when my younger son was still in high school. It was strange to revisit it.

 

Ruckus Plantagenet Ozymandias Xerxes Van Pelt, king of Maine, died unexpectedly on July 8 after suffering a blood clot. He was thirteen years old.

Ruckus was born on the Ides of March, somewhere near Bangor, Maine. His parentage is murky, but reputably he was half Siamese, half Russian oligarch. He spent his formative years in the town of Harmony, where, under the tutelage of his adoptive mother, Anna the standard poodle, he learned much about the wiles of chipmunks and developed his taste for large social gatherings.

Midlife, after moving grouchily to Portland, he discovered new horizons. Though he had spent his early years as a country cat, he stepped into the role of neighborhood icon with confidence and aplomb. With his across-the-street friend Jack “The Block Captain” Glessner, he founded the Neighborhood Bratz, and together they adventured into other people’s garages, snubbed small dogs, and posed for countless album photos on the hoods of cars. 

Ruckus was filled with grievance and vanity, and he was always eager to share these talents with his fans. His charisma and self-satisfaction were boundless. While he hated art, especially poetry, he was always gracious when a fan composed a song about him (for instance, the well-known pop tune “Construction Cat,” in which he wears a cravat and berates his employees) and enjoyed starring in the limited-edition comic book series Cat of Action. At the time of his death, he was in talks with Marvel about taking control of the universe.

Ruckus had many talents. He clawed furniture and smeared dress shirts with hair. He was an impeccable alarm clock, always set too early. He was a champion sulker and bigmouth, with a yowl that could stop traffic. His family still wears the scars of his claws. With such skills, he even began influencing the past: the 1960s Mission: Impossible team often consulted his string expertise, and Leonard Nimoy frequently mentioned how much better Ruckus would have been in the role of Captain Kirk.

Despite constant publicity, Ruckus loved his home and was deeply committed to his family and friends. High summer was his favorite season, and nothing made him cozier than family time, when he would bask in the grass as his loved ones sat around eating or cooking or playing cards. Yet he equally adored watching them get sweaty and exasperated and was sure to be nearby if they were digging a big hole or struggling with a flat tire. There is even a rumor that he invented Covid-19 so that his family would stop going to work. His dream was to convince all of his young people to move back in with their parents and set up beds in every room of the house. 

Ruckus was bossy, loud, and annoying. Everything was always about him. He was the life of the party, and his absence has left an enormous gulf. He is deeply mourned by his immediate family—Dawn, Tom, Lily, Paul, Hannah, and James—as well as his broader family circle, his neighbors, and his imaginary celebrity girlfriends. He was predeceased by his mother, Anna, and his best friend, Jack. Perhaps the three of them are in paradise together, all staring fixedly into the same chipmunk hole and ignoring the angels who are calling them home for dinner.

The lake is pure fog this morning--no distinction between water and sky, a flat wall rather than a horizon.

Today, after lunch, I'll head back to Portland, and to the empty place in our house.

It's been a beautiful conference week, despite my personal sorrows. I will write about it more. Thanks for being patient.

I got through the day by strict compartmentalizing . . . please, do not talk to me today about my cat . . . and that allowed people to forget to feel sad for me and so move on constructively into their day. It allowed me not to be leaking tears all day, allowed me to laugh and tease as necessary, allowed me to stay out late at the conference dance party, allowed me to come back to my cabin sweaty and panting, allowed me to sleep for more than the two hours I'd snared the night before.

At some point next week I will write an obituary for my beloved king of Maine. He was a public character, and he deserves a public memorial.

Poor Tom is home alone in the bereft house. It is not so easy to cloak sorrow when one is in the place where the life was lived.

Thank you to all who sent me little notes.

Last night I got back to the cabin after Teresa's wonderful reading and found a message from Tom that he had to have our cat put down. 

A blood clot, untreatable.

Dear Ruckus. I will write a better memorial than this when I can.

Rain last night, and this morning the grass hill that rolls down to the lake is quivering with water drops that are just beginning to catch the edge of sunlight.

I had my reading last night, and I hope it went well, I think it did. I read poems I've never read in public before, and may never again . . . it's always interesting, at these conferences, how I feel driven to treat readings in such a different way. In a way I'm relieved not to be hawking Calendar so directly. Yet I lay myself open when I risk reading these new and not necessarily crowd-pleasing pieces. All I can do is hope for the best.

Yesterday's dance and collaborative theater session was so wonderful: rigorous, hilarious, absorbing, and beautifully awkward. I was recalling afterward how much I appreciate being put into awkward positions . . . yes, it can be uncomfortable, but as one of the participants said, it helps him remember how awkward others may feel when confronted with words. Our own fluencies can blind us.

And Gretchen and Gwynnie are such good teachers: always expecting the best, always forgiving imperfection; process and process and process . . . the deep joy of the making.

It was a risk to bring non-writing artists into a poetry conference, but I'm so glad I did. They have illuminated so much about collaboration and trust and adventure and play.

* * *

Tonight I'll be reading, 7 p.m., at Tenney House, with backup from Teresa on a few poems that we're going to experiment with chorally.

Last night a storm whipped through, but now at daybreak the lake is hazed and glassy, the birches as still as listeners. Bullfrogs belch, blackbirds whistle; and somewhere, invisible in the ring of trees, a pileated woodpecker emits its harsh antique warning.

I live alone in this cabin. Each morning this week I will wake to this private view, this northern lake, with its fringe of mountains, with its dots of cottages peeking among the water-rim trees. It is not a lonely place. Monday-morning trucks cruise steadily north and south, heading to work in Greenville or Dover-Foxcroft, hauling loads to Skowhegan or Rumford or Bangor. Yet even though I can hear the traffic, the cabin feels separate from that busyness . . . tucked away, a secret.

I work hard at this conference, but I also have real time off: moments like now, this sweet lonesome hour: this lake, so quiet, a mirror of rest. In a few minutes all this will change: Teresa will pop around the corner of the cabin, I'll get up to pour her coffee, and we'll dive into the minutiae of "How do you think yesterday went?" and "What do we need to remember for today?" and the lonesome hour will shatter into the absorptions of the day.

Yesterday went well, I think. I began by dictating a tiny poem by Paul Celan and then giving a writing prompt. We talked about the specificity of how Celan controlled the transmitted emotions of the poem. Then we read an Anne Sexton poem and I offered a writing prompt that led, among other things, to a discussion of structure and a poet's signature moves, and eventually small groups worked on constructing their own questions and prompts. Then in the evening everyone shared two favorite poems by other poets, an event that turned out to be extremely moving, and a new way to get to know one another: by the tremble in our voices when we read aloud what we love.

I take such pleasure in doing this work, such pleasure in watching tension shift from shoulders and faces as the poets settle into the serious play of the conference, into the serious dedicated richness of this small age we spend together.

But I am glad to be alone for a few more minutes, watching low clouds bumble against the blue-gray ridge beyond the lake.

* * *

Tonight's collaborative faculty showcase: Gwyneth Jones has choreographed a dance to a poem by Gretchen Berg, which she will perform to several different accompaniments, one of which will be me on violin. Gwynnie and Gretchen will also be showing clips of larger works they've done together in the past, and then will invite the audience into impromptu participation as well. Performance takes place in Tenney House, 7 p.m., and is free and open to the public.

 

And this is my daybreak.

I sit alone on the cabin's deck. Below me bullfrogs burp in the weeds. A red-winged blackbird whistles and fizzes. Last night at dusk I heard loons, but this morning they are quiet.

Beside me: a mug of steaming black coffee and a backpack stuffed with plans. So far, only one mosquito has wandered by.

This will be a long and intense and exciting and draining day. Sitting here is a good way to start.

Of course I'm awake too early, and of course I'm nervy and jangled, but that's to be expected. And luckily the morning is soothing--gray light, gull cry, hoot of a passing train, cardinals a-chitter in the trees, air cool and clean. Yesterday was the final chore sweep--cleaning the car, mowing grass, packing, watering, prepping today's lunch, making lists for Tom--and now my bags stand by the front door, now I've only got a few last-minute items to pull together, and then I'll wait for Teresa's text from the airport, and then the adventure will begin.

I've been directing or assisting at some version of this conference for fifteen years now, and still every departure morning feels momentous. There's no other week in my year like it. It has been an incredible gift--this annual opportunity to construct a gathering that is at once free-wheeling and focused, vast and intimate. It is also such hard, hard work. Since last summer Teresa and I have constantly been meeting and cogitating about this week--building and unbricking and building again. We pore over every aspect of the schedule, we tweak and re-tweak, we unroll blueprints of mysterious castles and plot charts into unknown forests . . . And now we are ready to open the curtain and invite our small troupe into the play. You see how the mixed metaphors fly! And why not? There is room for all of them at this party.

One of the things I need to do this morning is to cut flowers for decorating the Monson Arts meeting space, and my neighbor has generously offered up her roses and hydrangeas, which are huge and glorious and overflowing. I'll attempt to get a walk in as well . . . it's not always easy to count on regular exercise when I'm on the job, though Teresa and I do try. One great help is Monson Arts itself. The place takes such good care of us: excellent meals, excellent housing, excellent staff support. Our only responsibility is our invention.

You may or may not hear from me this week. I'm not going to berate myself if I can't find the headspace to write a daily note, but on the other hand I might be eager to chatter. Thanks for your forebearance . . . I will see you on the other side.

The neighborhood is very quiet this morning. People have vanished for the long weekend; people are sleeping in on their day off. The only person I've seen so far is the man who combs recycling bins for returnables, rattling up with his bike and dragging a shopping cart. We say good morning, we chat about the time and about coffee. Then he continues his rounds, and I amble back down the driveway. There, the cat, drunk on cool air and lying in wait, leaps out at me from under the truck, swarms four feet up a tree trunk, pauses in confusion, awkwardly backs down, and strolls away, metaphorically whistling as he goes. I'm not dead under a bush are the lyrics of his tune. Life is so ruthlessly alive.

I have many jobs to do today--grass mowing and trimming, vacuuming the car, packing, prepping tomorrow's lunch, plus dealing with regular laundry and meal chores. Teresa and her husband are vegan, so I've decided to fix a Korean summer noodle dish that we can eat before we drive up to Monson tomorrow. For tonight I've got chicken for the firepit, to be marinated with lemon, oil, garlic scapes, and oregano. The city fireworks are usually visible from our street, so maybe we'll sit out on the curb this evening to watch. It's hard to dredge up enthusiasm, though. There's not much to celebrate in America.

Still, I cannot enter into conference week with a defeated mind. I am too responsible for other people. I owe them more than gloom and cynicism. I owe poetry more than that as well. As the goons jackhammer the nation, our small circles embrace, our small flames glow. We are afraid, but we are not quenched.

Thank you to all of the familiar beloveds, to all of the soon-to-be friends, who are trustfully wending their way to the north country to spend a week immersed in that glow. Thank you to the beloveds who hold the fort at home, honoring our commitment and our need. Thank you to the wider circle of friends and neighbors and family members who text good wishes for the week, or feed our pets and water our plants, or promise eagerly to attend one of the performances, or wistfully wish they could be with us, or send us dumb cat photos in the middle of the night. Thank you to the readers of these daily missives, for your loyalty, for your curiosity, for your patience with my maundering missteps, for your sweet voices in the comments.

Under the jackhammer's clamor, I hear you singing.

When high summer starts kicking in, my cooking improves tremendously. Even in a bad garden year (and this is one), I've got armloads of fresh herbs, and at the moment I'm also harvesting young red onions, garlic scapes, a few peas, and salad greens, and I have access to local fruit, corn, and fish. Last night's meal was a treat from beginning to end. I roasted two small whole mackerel ($4.99 a pound at the fish market; a steal!), first salting and olive-oiling them and stuffing them with fresh oregano, lemon thyme, and slices of lime; then serving them with a yogurt-parsley sauce. On the side, two salads: one, corn with roasted onions and peppers and fresh cilantro; the other, sliced beets with green onion, tiny peas, garlic scapes, mint, and salad greens. For dessert: a version of a Neapolitan--scoops of homemade chocolate and vanilla ice cream topped with fresh strawberries. It was a really, really good dinner.

Otherwise, the day was full of this-and-thats, with the big event being the dance rehearsal up at Bowdoin. If you are within travel distance of Monson Arts, you're invited to join us for the faculty performances, all of which will take place at Tenney House, all of which are free and open to the public and begin at 7 p.m. As you know, this year’s conference theme is collaboration, and each of the performances will feature faculty working together to create collaborative art. Here's the schedule:

July 7: Gretchen Berg, poet, and Gwyneth Jones, dancer (accompanied by Dawn Potter, fiddle)

July 8: Dawn Potter, poet (accompanied by Teresa Carson, reader)

July 9: Teresa Carson, poet (accompanied by Dawn Potter, reader)

Preparing for these performances has been so interesting and absorbing, and every day I've been getting more and more excited about the conference. All four of the faculty members have completely embraced the notion of collaboration in our design of teaching sessions and performances, and planning for this has been challenging and fascinating and exciting. Teaching, at its best, is a deeply creative act, and working with these incredible colleagues has invigorated me so much. I can't wait to welcome our participants into this delight. 

Yesterday was a pretty bad day. In the morning, when I was in the garden trying to beat the heat before retreating to my desk, I thought I heard a meow. So I crossed the street to investigate and discovered Jack's body in the bushes.

That darkened the day, and the Senate darkened the day, and then last night a bat flew into our bedroom, with chaos ensuing, forcing T and me to hunt for what little sleep we could get on couches downstairs. T did leave the bedroom window open and the door shut, hoping that the bat would find his way out . . . which we thought he had, until I pulled up the shade this morning and the bat fell on my shoulder.

It's a good thing the neighbors all have their air conditioners running because they would surely have heard my bloodcurdling shriek and assumed that a terrible crime was taking place.

But the bat did fly out through the window, and T thinks he's finally figured out where they've been getting in and will patch it tonight. So that's a speck of good news.

Today I'm going up to Bowdoin to rehearse for the Monson performance, and I'll squeeze in various chores around the edges--garden, house, groceries, packing. Yesterday I did manage to get the bulk of the editing project done, despite the Jack tragedy. Still, I'm tireder than I'd like to be, and sad, and angry, and still kind of freaked out about having a bat fall on me.

There's great sadness in the neighborhood: Jack, the across-the-street cat I was babysitting last week, hasn't been seen since Friday. A few days after his family got home from vacation, he just disappeared. We're all checking our sheds and garages, but everyone fears the worst. Despite his misanthropy, Jack is very popular, and his loss is a sorrow, not least for my cat Ruckus, his best friend. Over the years the two of them have had many nosy adventures together, and we are all grieved.

Today is the first of July, and the gray dawn air is thick and still and hazy. A robin trills. A train hoots. Temperatures are forecast to rise into the mid-80s, so I'm going to try to get a few garden chores done early in the day and then retreat indoors. With exquisitely bad timing, an editing project dropped on my desk yesterday, giving me one more thing to shoehorn among the other this-n-thats. But I really want to get it done before I leave, if I can. With that trip to Chicago looming later in the month, my schedule will only get more awkward.

So today: garden, violin, editing, laundry, paperwork, lists lists lists . . . tomorrow I'll be at Bowdoin, rehearsing for the Monson performance . . . I should comb through my teaching plans again . . . I've got to go for a walk; I haven't taken one for two days . . . and what will I make for dinner? . . . and poor Jack is gone . . . Sigh.