Stop Your Face

That's what I think when I look at Spud, because he's just too ridiculous. Someone dumped him out of a car two years ago and he ended up with us. He's a treasure.

"And stop your face too," I tell Mouse from time to time. She was found newly born, her tiny sister beside her, their mother dead in the road. Mouse is so pretty I can rarely walk past her without stopping to look. That box she's parked in measures 7 x 9 inches.
But really, today it's me who needs to stop my face. I was on the phone at work, involved in epic conversations, every day, all day, this week. Long, long conversations. Hours and hours of talking, listening, and talking some more. It's hard work. My face does not want to move, it just wants to hang around. I'm aware of my ears. Now would be the time to let them flop sideways, horselike. So for now, I'm not talking, but I am thinking.

This upcoming Tuesday, Scout will have a soundness exam. On May 2nd, it will be six months since her surgery. I shut down the endless loop in my head about Scout and me a couple of months ago, when the pressure of having to decide anything at all about either her or Dar began to grind at me in a way that tainted how I saw them both. I just had to stop the obsessive one-way dialog to wait for the next piece of information. That's what I'll get on Tuesday. So that day is coming, that moment when I'll have to think of Scout, about Scout, all over again.