Do dogs do genealogy?
Outside, before dawn, in a snowstorm. The dog requires that the human get involved. Still have to check out those tracks across the way. Still make a path to the tree, just in case. I’m OK with all that.
This rated as a quiet morning, due in part to the storm that is making its way across my part of the known world. We might have to adjust travel plans (and the hotel is good with the idea). By mid-afternoon (the new lunchtime), after watching Carmen Campagne with a new totshow, we agreed to move the encampment to a nearby steakhouse.
Really good steak and sides, in passing. I couldn’t do better in my own kitchen. Mark “Montanas” as a reputable eatery.
The stop at my mother’s saw me sorting through a barrel of belongings. Mainly from highschool: old scribblers, books that missed the return to textbook heaven, some letters from my time at university. Although it may seem maudlin, I repacked the better items, for the return home. It’s not right to throw away our own history. For the record, my penmanship didn’t improve (or degrade) over the last four decades.
Right now, I’m at a kitchen party. That’s what Maritimers do, no matter the venue. Same musical tastes, same food choices. Only the additon of new generations have changed the faces around the table. Even the dog has settled in to a quiet place under the table (after a frenetic visit with his distant dog cousin across the way. Do dogs do genealogy? Is that the reason for the incessant inspecting?)
