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This morning was the first rainy dogwalk of fall. It is always hysterical. Our condo has an indoor courtyard - so as soon as we step outside, Miss Kate can hear the rain. She starts the long slow slog outside, pouting. The trees that surround the buiding amplify even the smallest amount of rain, but at 6am - it was POURING. I popped the umbrella open and we stepped out. She rushes over into the bushes and immediately pees and gives me that look like, "Ok, I'm done, we can go back in now." Instead, we head downstairs to the car where she gets a delayed sentence. We drive to the coffeeshop and once I return with my coffee, she and I have a discussion. "Once you are out in it, it'll be fine. And there is a nice warm towel waiting at home." We drive to the park, and I leash her up and off we go. The rain stops for a while, and she gets in her morning sniffs. But everything is different in the wet, her favorite sleuthing between the pompom grasses becomes like a car between brushes in a car wash. The paths become muddy and everything she brushes up against results in a cascade of droplets. We're about to make a u-turn back to the car and the rain starts again. She stops in her tracks and looks up at me with this "Tell me again how it's going to be fine?", scoffing at my umbrella. We get back to the car, perfectly timed with the weather forecast. NPR says "Heavy showers in the afternoon with possible thunderstorms." and Miss Kate lets out a perfectly timed huff, "Yeah," she says, "we won't be doing that." When it's truly pouring - she'll try making a u-turn back into the house like "oh no we are not...." - and she literally has to get picked up and taken out to the street. It's part of the charm of her companionship in the winter months. (giggle) I have a feeling she doesn't find it nearly as amusing as I do.

Searching for Orion

The first crunchy frost of fall announced itself as he cut across the green grass in the predawn darkness. He stopped, staring up into the pre-dawn sky, realizing it had returned. He remembered his childhood room, pointing his Sears Roebuck telescope out the westward window hoping for Orion.

red circle

I circled the date on my calendar. I chuckled to myself, I was still keeping a 6th grade teacher red pen on my desk. September 25th. He's fifty today. He'll jog along the Outaouais, lost with some kind of morning prayer playing in his earbuds he will stop and stare out over the water. His hot breath will make steamy dances in the sunrise. Does he remember the sound of my name? How it rolled from his tongue like a poem of hope and heart break. How his french tongue broke it into so many syllables it seemed impossible. Does he remember standing on my stoop with tears in his eyes? Or is it so many lifetimes ago that it's a memory that doesn't get replayed. He couldn't, he said. When the brilliant orange of fall appears outside my window and Bernard Thibadeau is all I can think of.


"How come you never hear people bitch about Tuesday? No 'for the love of Christ it is only Tuesday' memes ...... I think Tuesday is getting off easy." "I think you are thinking too much."
"Monday is hated, Wednesday is hump day, yet Tuesday is nameless, invisible." " Perhaps Tuesday prefers to be the day other things get posted. Happy pet photos, rants about how much Facebook sucks, or My Little Cthulu episodes." "You mean Tuesday is the buffer for all the esoteric psychobabble on the internet?" "Like the patient friend who will listen to you drone on about vapid first world problems. Tuesday is that friend during the week you can say anything to." "So we hate Mondays, Tuesday is our enabler, Wednesday is a horny little sex kitten and we thank god for Friday. What about Thursdays?" "You are not ready for the truth about Thursday yet. We'll leave that for the next lesson...."


"The community is there," he responded, "I guess I'd question what kind of community we are though? We're a gang of men that talk about cock all the time, yet someone that enjoys a lot of it, we label a slut. We talk about hot we are in the sack yet most guys have that irritating hesitation, like they suspect that it's really not okay. And they guys that really do let go and find everything there is to love in a man we label a pig. God we can be judgmental bitches. Then there is whole new wave of shit, calling a young, HIV-negative gay man a "Truvada whore" simply for choosing a prevention option with a higher efficacy rate than condoms. Becoming indignant when someone says AIDS is still a gay problem. Turning to the police when you find out the guy that just jilted you is HIV-positive. Putting "I'm clean, ub2" in your online profile. Joining digital stonings via online comment sections when a 20-something dares to come out as HIV-positive. HIV-negative guys barebacking with those who tell them they are negative and shunning the few brave ones who admit they're positive. It is a miracle we ever have sex at all."