I google myself every so often, just to make sure that the real Cheryl Donahue--me--comes up at the top of the list. I suppose those other Cheryl Donahues consider themselves just as real. But they are too spookily like alternate selves to get complacent about. Just minor tweaks in the life circuit, and they could be me. That's why I have to watch them.
Our little dog Lucy went into heat the week we were taking her to the vet to be spayed. A puppy whose life was previously occupied with walks, chasing her ball, running, pouncing on bugs and cadging treats is now focused almost exclusively on becoming a mother. Or, at least, on finding a mate. Judging by her avid scenting on our early morning walks, there are a lot of fine male dogs in the vicinity. But she won't be meeting them. She's too young to be a mother.
Hallelujah! It's here. Better than finding out that drinking red wine and eating dark chocolate are good for you. Way, way better than liposuction and tummy tucks. So much better than the South Beach Diet; get out of here with your South Beach Diet. I'm talking about resveratrol (marketeers take note: we need a catchy new name for this stuff, and quick). And you need never diet again, because resveratrol lets you eat whatever you want, and stay as healthy and active as your brother the fitness freak. Yee-ha!
He's a handsome fellow, I have to admit. Standing on the hill in our back garden on four sturdy paws, strong little Jack Russell chest thrust out, ears cocked and folded in two perfect triangles, coat a radiant white and tan, he commands attention. And he has it. Not only mine, staring at him eye to eye from the kitchen window, but also my female puppy's, in her first season, and pining for her first love.
August 24th, 2005
My friend Gail likes to straighten things up. When we have lunch out she'll neatly arrange the napkins and cutlery on the table, and bring any other stray items into line. "Don't mind this," she said once, years ago, "It's my cosmic job. Nature's Little Pruner."
I loved the idea of a cosmic job, a clear, simple task to which one was cosmically assigned, that makes use of one's natural bent. I wanted a cosmic job. As it turns out, I have one. I am the Direction Giver.
