This will be brief.
I did very little last year. I didn’t paint. I read exactly one book (Charles Adams Platt’s “Italian Gardens,” 1894). I went to the Blanton Museum only twice.
My journal became little more than a listing of the times I go to bed and get up.
I stayed at home zonked out on meds and sleeping long hours except for occasional trips to clinics, the University of Texas campus, the vet, the pet store, and the supermarket.
I had a sporadic personal problem that I can’t really discuss, though longtime readers should be able to guess what I mean.
Hurricane Harvey (which I keep wanting to call “Hurricane Herman”) only caused three days of rain in Austin. My mom, however, lives near Houston and a major river. Her neighborhood was placed under a mandatory evacuation order, but she decided to stay put, and amazingly, her house and street were spared.
A friend who lives in Houston lost everything to the floods, and is far more sanguine about the loss than I would be in that situation.
In late July a vet diagnosed my beloved Basset Hound Belle with a large, inoperable, incurable tumor on her liver, as well as nodular irregularities (whatever that means), and an inflammation on her kidneys. The vet said Belle probably had three to six months left, maybe eight, and that was over five months ago.
After Belle stopped sleeping in the bed, I started sleeping on the living room floor in order to be close to her. I often wake up briefly during the day or night and check to see if she’s still breathing.
I thought Belle and I would have at least two more years together. I’m not ready to lose another dog, but at the same time, I intend to not wait as long as I did after Fred’s death (three years) before I adopt the next dog. Dogs are absolutely necessary for my well-being.
My hope for 2018? An overthrow of Trump and all of his stooges–an overthrow of such frightening intensity that it will terrify Trump’s supporters to the degree they never attempt a power grab again.