Sometime between 11:00 and noon: I wake up and walk Jackson and Chesme, the two adolescent, fully-grown large-breed dogs I now live with in this cramped one-bedroom apartment. No time for me to empty my aching bladder. I can't get up at night to use the bathroom, or else Jackson will cry and howl in his crate. "Geez, I'll be back in a minute..." I say to him. He doesn't understand; he drools, whines, and chews at the wires on his crate until I return, waking up the whole neighborhood. He's lived in a shelter his whole life and fears being left alone in a metal cage, even for a minute. He isn't house-trained either, and the second I let him out of the crate, if I don't walk him immediately, he'll piss all over the floor.
Fifteen minutes later: I return to apartment #36, and grab a couple more black plastic bags marked Dogipot from the dispenser and throw the bag of dog feces in the specially-marked trash can.
1pm: I take a shower, making sure to lock Jackson in his crate, and blocking Chesme from the kitchen with a makeshift divider so she can't chew up anything while my back is turned. Chesme already chewed up my eyeglasses, and now everything looks out of focus. San Diego is a blurry paradise, thanks to these dogs. "I can't say I didn't warn ya," my sister Sarah says on the phone. "Books, DVDs, anything she can get she'll chew up if you aren't careful. She won't do it when you're around, but when you leave, she will. She's so cute, she 'my Princess!" Sarah says on the phone.
1:20: I get out of the shower, and change clothes. I check to make sure Chesme hasn't chewed up anything I forgot to keep from her, then clean up Chesme's poop on the patio. "It's OK if she pees and poops out here. She doesn't poop outside, just here, so we put some newspapers down. Make sure you change the papers each day," says Sarah again. Then I let Jackson out of the crate and take him for a quick walk to relieve himself, but instead he's too distracted by all the new smells and dogs playing in the park, and tugs constantly at his leash. I get frustrated, and bring him back home after he's marked a few spots. Minutes later, I watch him piss all over the carpet and scream, "I just let you out ten minutes ago!"
1:30: I check my email and look on craigslist.org for a job. No corporate gigs. Preferably something that allows me to express myself. A high-paying entry-level writing gig would sure be nice. Screw the required published 'clips' each employer demands. I don't need to prove I can write. Right?
2:00: I take the dogs to the nearby dog park. I take them off their leash, only to separate the incorrigible pups from the poor dogs and their owners foolish enough to be at the dog park at the same time as these uncontrollable canines, before blood is drawn. "Oh, their just playing. They're so friendly, aren't they?" Sarah says, before she left us alone with these dogs to go be a counselor at a Christian camp in the nearby mountains for the summer.
2:30: Holly's always home, so I let the dogs off the leash and let them try to kill each other, or "play," as Sarah calls it, while Holly reads a book on the couch. "Stop it. No really, stop killing each other. No...Stop." Holly says listlessly, not looking up from her latest Chuck Palahniuk novel. I change into swimming trunks, and go to the pool near the front office. I read for an hour and work on my farmer tan, which usually results in a painful blotchy sunburn. Then I swim ten laps (on a good day), bob up and down in the water, do a few water aerobics, sit in the hot tub for five to ten minutes, and finally do an hour of writing.
6:00: I come home to Holly taking a nap, or still reading her book. I take the dogs for a walk, after asking Holly how many accidents the dogs had and how many times she walked them. "Yeah, I walked 'em once but then Jackson peed on the carpet when I got back. Jackson, you're such an asshole." Asshole, that's Holly's nickname for Jackson. She's right, but I should probably buy her a thesaurus.
6:30: I eat dinner, feed the dogs, and take them out for another unproductive walk.
7:00: Returning home, I discover Chesme chewed up something else she wasn't supposed to, and step in wet dog piss on the carpet.
7-11:00: I browse the web, think about posting to my blog, or go back to the pool. Or, if I'm really bored, watch one of the two stations on TV Sarah gets via the old-fashioned rabbit ears.
11:00-?: I look at craigslist.org for free stuff and a cheap, one bedroom apartment before going to sleep, some time after midnight.
This has been my life, for the past couple of weeks. I still don't have a job, and I used up all my money I earned before moving out here for rent, so tomorrow I'll have to find a job. I just don't want to work, and live here in southern California and appreciate "Endless Summer" and write. I guess, at the least, a job will get me out of the house and away from Holly and the hounds. I'm not a famous writer yet, so I need a day job. Wish me luck. I think I'll need it to stay sane, until Sarah and her husband return from camp at the end of summer to resume taking care of the dogs. Whenever that may be. It seems like summer here never ends...
Peace.
Led Zepplin IV, 1971
