Dog Shit. Just Dog Shit

**Warning — discussion of dog poop to follow. Really. I’m talking about dog poop.**
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Now. as I have four dogs currently living with me, I have a lot of poop to scoop up. Picking up after Bella is like picking up after a horse. Quite literally the size of horse apples. I’m not all that surprised by that, she’s a big dog. I’d rather muck a horse stall, though. I don’t mind the smell of horse manure, rather I find it pleasant and earthy. Maybe it’s just because I loved horses so much as a kid and I associate the smell of horse manure with my time working in the barns and now with gardening and growth. Horse (and cow) manure = growth so…good stuff. Rottweiler turds, however, not the same. Same size, wholly different smell and I don’t want them anywhere near my compost pile, thank you very much. 
What’s confusing and bemusing is that Pix, the 5 lb rescue Chihuahua makes piles as big as Joker and Gypsy. What the HELL? Joker is 60 lbs, Gypsy is 40. I feed them both the same amount, since Gypsy is so active and lean. I can even tell the difference between her piles and his. Pix is elderly, gets fed way less and her raw food is ground up since her teeth are terrible and yet — you should see the size of her piles! How on earth does she manage to fit all that in her tiny little body? Does she even have intestines that fit all that…where? I’m just…HOW?
Baffling. Absolutely baffling.
Just be glad I didn’t take a photo.

You Kept Me Here For This?

Two years ago, I attempted suicide. Failed, spectacularly (unless this is all a dream upon my death bed, which would explain A LOT and if so, I’m truly sorry to all that are experiencing the horrors of my subconscious) and the entire saga of my hospitalization and subsequent recovery is available publicly on my Facebook starting here: https://www.facebook.com/notes/jackie-beltaine/anatomy-of-a-nervous-breakdown/10153338627833098 because I believe that mental illness is not something to hide and if my story helps one person, then it’s worth any potential embarassment.

Part of why I did it is because I didn’t want to live the way I’m living now: in poverty, struggling to survive on SS disability; with a chronic pain condition that keeps me from enjoying what little I *can* do and now with our current political climate it seems as if things are only going to get worse for people like me.

I posted this earlier to my Facebook, along with the link to the New York Times article referencing Trump’s EPA pick.

capture

I’ve kind of gotten to the “Acceptance” stage of grief, if grieving is what I am doing. I guess I am. I’m grieving the end of life as I’ve known it, the end of my country, potentially the end of the world since Trumpelthinskin has gone against all diplomatic advice and practices in his interactions with heads of state of other countries. It’s just…baffling. I’m no longer surprised, just resigned that each new day will bring some new ridiculous tweet or appointment.

And I have to wonder…why did the Universe spit me back out when I tried to end things on my terms? For this? Had I not suffered enough? Did I have to TRULY suffer first?

I tell you what — should it come to an actual war, I shall sit outside and watch the bombs fall. I’m too old, tired and in pain to bother with my old “I’ll never give up, fight to survive” bullshit. I’ll hug my dogs close, shut my eyes and let the blast take us.

SMH. And here I keep fighting off the cockroaches. I should let them have my house. They’re gonna end up inheriting the entire world anyway.