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"The conscious mind allows itself to be trained like a parrot, but the unconscious does not - which is why St. Augustine thanked God for not making him responsible for his dreams."
- Carl Gustav Jung,
Psychology of Alchemy
I know it's a little deep coming from a dog, but being Catholic by osmosis I thought St. Augustine might awaken me to the realization that I need to be more responsible when I'm asleep. I'm certainly not while awake.
I think our food tray may have been spiked with Holy Water.
Have you ever had an argument with your significant other and you couldn't think immediately of an appropriate response? But, then, when you're fast asleep and in your dreams comes THE BEST retort ever. Then you wake up and can't piece together a coherent sentence ...
I'm at a loss for words too and I've been sleeping on it for the past month. I see my masters suffering. I can't explain it, but that hang-dog look they carry has gotten me and Sweet Pea to thinking about calling their toll-free Employee Assistance Program number.
The garage is so full of furniture and household belongings that my master has to shuffle stuff for 10 minutes just to get his lawnmower out. Then when he does he has a Big Wheel hanging off the back of it. Our walkway from the side door to our "play area" is so crowded now that we have to walk single file. Best we can figure May 12 is some significant date. It's circled on the kitchen calendar in black.
That real nice girl, the one who used to come around smelling like chicken feathers, has been in and out a lot lately. About four weeks ago, she dropped off those two cute little girls and I overheard her telling them to mind their Grammy and Grumpy. For the past two weeks, there has been a constant procession of truck and trailer loads of stuff (my master thinks some of it is junk) - thus the full garage.
My suspicion is that someone is moving. It's kind of weird, but I overheard the new location as Russellville. Heck, their last name is Russell. They named a town after them!
That would be special. Wonder if there's a Thistleville?
My masters have been working overtime in the mornings running daycare and school shuttles, taking the bigger of those two girls to softball practices and games. The smaller one must be a water girl or a babysitter or something? She acts like she has a job to do but has this little plastic baby always attached to her hip.
That baby looks like a girl, but she calls it Preston. You just can't go by looks or names anymore.
For a while my masters looked like they were reliving their childhoods. They bounced around from front-yard croquet to flower planting and watering with gaits that belied their advanced years.
Then, like I said, a few weeks ago the spring in their steps seemed to come unraveled.
I promised them I'd never move away and break their hearts, but they looked at me like I was a household pet. I guess if I found a better job, one that would ensure I could afford better dog food, they'd understand.
I think they do, but I also think they got used to parenting once again. The funny thing is, they were never especially good at it before, but to hear them talk you'd think they really have the handle on it now.
Russellville must not be too far. I overheard Mrs. Master saying she would be making regular road trips as soon as she got all the junk put away.