Sequestered, on a tiny island
Brought the loaner dog home for the evening. She was shorn, in the last day or two, and I detect a change. Not as assertive, without her winter curls. I wonder if dogs have that sense of self-image? I mean, they see themselves as completely matched against the largest and the smallest examples of their species, but the simple act of removing fur seems to bring an uneasy calm into the house. Our main dog is already both short of hair and short on nerve, so I can’t test this easily.
My civic number sign is ready, according to an early morning call. The house will now have an identity; others can reach out and say, at such-and-such an address. Does it apply to me? Will anyone even notice my arrival, if I don’t set off fireworks and play loud noises?
I’m caught up in the drama of “what to move, and when”. Do movers take a long time to get in and out, once you call? Will I have to make a high speed run, to assure that I’m sitting on the doorstep when the truck arrives? Will my new number be visible, or is there still too much snow in the sector? So many minor level mysteries to solve.
Someone mentioned that the repatriation of our constitution took place more than three decades ago. I remember the coverage, on my single channel monochrome TV. I was sequestered on a tiny island, with no means of escape; I may have wondered if this would be the tool to set me free.
