Now About That Memory . . . And Dog Stuff (Patricia Potter)

I don’t know if anyone else has this problem, but my memory has gone to the dogs.

I almost forgot about writing this blog but then a reminder came this morning. My fellow blogsters know me well. Last week I was reminded as well but I still managed to forget until late Saturday morning.

Okay, everyone is entitled to an occasional lapse.

Except in the past week, I forgot a doctor’s appointment, forgot to do my mother’s laundry (it was in a bag sitting in the backseat of a car for two days) and almost forgot my critique group meeting (which has met on Friday morning forever). Then there was the cable bill . . .

Part of this is due to feverish revisions. Although my editor miraculously had few of her own, a re-read of my manuscript dictated much more. For instance, I forgot the name of the villain, the color of the heroine’s hair and the background of my hero. I always tinker, tinker, ticker with the manuscript at different stages of its travels along the production road.

Okay, maybe that explains how I forgot my niece’s graduation, and graduation cards – and money – for my nephew. Or how I forgot to call my plumbing buddy to tell him the commode didn’t work. I don’t even have Lynn’s excuse for a non-functioning ‘necessary’, as they used to call it.

To prod my failing memory, I studiously make notes on my huge big calendar that’s almost as big as my desktop: occasions, appointments, deadlines, etc. It doesn’t help much, though, when it’s covered by 500 vividly marked manuscript pages. Thus was the medical appointment was buried.

It seems I forgot to feed the dogs, too, but they always tell me about my failings. In no uncertain terms. It’s not easy to write when three wet noses keep nudging you.

And then there are the other interruptions. I was happily making changes this afternoon when my neighbor rang my bell. He’s a very good neighbor, and we share dog sitting chores until his Charlie died last year. He (my neighbor) had a beautiful, well-mannered sweet Australian Shepherd in tow. He’d found her running loose, darting back and forth across the street. He wanted to know whether I knew from whence she came.

I didn’t, and we conferred for thirty minutes outside, hoping someone would come along looking for the dog. No one did. Wanting to get back to my revisions which are due Tuesday, I suggested he take the dog for a walk. Maybe he would run into someone looking for her. Thirty minutes later he returned to my door. No luck on the walk, but he’d found a barely legible phone number on the rabies tag and after four calls finally found the owner.

First words out of her mouth after he explained he had her dog was to ask if he wanted her. The dog was named Memphis and, as Australian shepherds are apt to be, was high energy. She (the woman, not the dog) said she had three kids and an older full-size, sedate poodle and the household just wasn’t suited for Memphis.

More conferencing.

Now, mind you, this is a gorgeous dog – obviously a purebred – who comes when you call. She’s a strange color mixture – redding brown and white – with a beautiful face. The woman said he was completely house-trained and has had obedience training. He just was an escape artist as well.

If the Wild Indians didn’t already make life difficult for my elderly and, I fear, ailing little Ting Ting, I would have grabbed her. It just doesn’t seem fair to Ting at the moment. As it is, I strongly encouraged my neighbor to adopt her and promised to dog sit. I do know that, between the two of us, we’ll find a good home even if it isn’t his.

Now this is something I WOULD like to forget. That face looking up at me, the tail wagging furiously, the tongue eagerly straining to give dog kisses. I WANT that dog. As if three weren't enough.

I rather suspect this is one thing I will not forget and that Memphis will eventually wind up in my house.

Ah well . . .

Back to revisions.

In the meantime, how is your memory? Anything important you forgot, recently.

Oops, I forgot the question mark.