Saturday, January 13, 2024

  Saturday,  January 13, 2024

 

    I weeded the fine grass clumps in the flower bed and trimmed one of the larger bushes. I needed the step ladder to get the high branches. I was prepared to fall into the bush if I lost my balance. I may have been stuck there for a while, but someone would have come along to help me. I treated the broken Ti  leaf plant stump that was snapped in two during the windstorm with Super Thrive. 

     I was ready to deliver my letter to the woman whose dogs attacked Elsa. I ran it past Yvette, who thought it sounded good. I walked it to her mailbox. Her property is enclosed with a chain link fence. I wouldn't have found it easy to get in to talk to her if I wanted to. My fear of her dogs would have been enough to keep me out.

   I addressed the envelope "to the woman whose dogs attacked my dog." I added a note on the envelope, "This is not a lawsuit." Her mailbox was a strange one. It looked like a regular rural delivery box, but it had a locked box inside, part of the construction. I didn't know where to place my envelope. I was concerned it would slip behind the box and never be noticed. I took a picture of the inside of the box and the address for the police report.

   A man on a small, motorized vehicle pulled up to the fence.

I assume it was her husband. He asked me what I was doing. I told him I was putting a letter in the mailbox and was confused by the design. He assumed the letter had been misdelivered, and I was kind enough to bring it over. I said no, the letter was from me, and got out of there. The event was stressful. I went home and slept for most of the day.

    I had repeated nightmares that the woman would accuse me of being the cause of the problem. My dog is a yappy dog who provoked her dogs.

If I'm concerned about her dogs knocking me over, I have no business being in the street. No, I never spoke to the woman. I have no idea what she thought. The proposal that a vicious dog has more right to be on the public road versus me is so preposterous as to be absurd. It still feels lousy to envision someone taking the tack. Mind you, she has said nothing of the sort. It's my mom's accusing voice where everything that goes wrong is my fault. She once said, "If I ever make anyone angry, it's because you did something wrong.."     

    At twelve, I was molested (not raped) on the subway. I came home and turned to my mother for comfort. She got angry at me. Typical of my mom. She operated on "It's Thursday; it must be Belgium" logic. If she was upset, it must be my fault.

   The email for Mama K's crew was undeliverable for the second day. This time, I sent Mama K a screenshot of the return email. I had the wrong address. Some computer glitch had removed the

correct address from my address book and left an invalid one.