And A Dog Named Bob

It’s a typical day.

That is, my alarm blares awake, siren-like (I still haven’t figured out how to make the noise something quieter) and it startles me enough that I half-fall out of bed.

Coffee and mail, that’s the routine. Some time ago I acquired a travel mug so I wouldn’t have to remain undercaffeinated while making the twelve-story trip between my apartment and the mailboxes. It’s definitely more efficient than putting one before the other – by the time I get back with the mail, I’ve drained my first coffee and that always seems to help when dealing with the bills.

Ow. That stupid wooden bluejay carving I bought at the market has just clonked onto my foot, again. I thought it’d look good on the hallway table, adding a bit of interest to a table that is bare other than a bowl for keys and coins, but all it seems to do is tumble off at the slightest provocation. (That is to say, at least twice a day)

Double-sided tape, or blu-tack, that’s what I need. I scrawl a quick reminder and pin it to the fridge, which is so far a graveyard for all my other notes and reminders.

Automatically, I beat together a bowl of egg, cinnamon and milk, drowning slices of bread in it and dropping it in the now-hissing frying pan. The stove is temperamental at the best of times, but it seems to be working today. I’ll take it as my consolation for the bluejay.

Syrup and bacon are quick to follow, and after accidentally chipping a shard off the plate where it clattered against the hard wooden cupboards, I’ve got a decent breakfast and second coffee to ease the bitterness of bill-paying. Seems this month they’ve all come at once.

The ink is blue-black, smeary on my fingers as I write what needs to be sorted, and I’m grateful for the convenience of pens, rather than having to use a quill and pot of ink.

With breakfast finished and bills paid, it’s time to work on the newest painting. I’m not sure where this one came from. Normally I have some inspiration, or I see something that should be placed on canvas to remember it better. This time, it was something that seemed to appear from nowhere.

The dog in the painting looks out at me, and I realize that I haven’t yet given him a name. It’s something I like to do, give the subjects of my works a proper name and not just refer to them by an obvious title. He almost looks reproachful, as if he would rather like a name and would like it today, thank you.

I clean the remaining paint from the brush and study him intently.

I think I’ll call him Bob.

2 thoughts on “And A Dog Named Bob”

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