i love Ozzy's singular devoted attention to the manner of pooping. how he'll suddenly stop babbling, get still and then let loose a ginormous rattling fart that sends out shockwaves from the epicenter of his rear which is immediately followed by an eruption not unlike vesuvius on pompeii. impressed by the sound of it, i take several fistfuls of baby wipes and prepare myself, going into disaster relief mode and ready to face whatever he's got packin' in that diaper. but am surprised to find but a few schmeres of mustardy track marks. all sound and fury, but no substance. i find it endearing.
sometimes when i think about giving up on life in general, and sitting like a blob all day, unbidden my mind fills up with images of a neglected garden turning brown, rotting, dying, and thats often enough motivation to keep going, if for no other reason than to prevent the desolation from becoming reality. is it weird that when i think of dying one day, that i get sad knowing my garden will die when i am gone? i dont think anyone else would go tend to it when i am no longer around. i hope they will at least keep a plant or two in remembrance of me, but the little pollinator waystation i've been working for several years now to create will likely be razed and no more.
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