I call her Queen Frieda now, because she had a regal sense of entitlement, and I love the sophisticated way she has of crossing her legs. She loves to gaze out at the world these days, and watch me take photos. I had a rugged writing day. I set out to write a short story about a woman who has to decide whether or not to put her dog down, and the story just didn’t. I wrote it, sent it to some friends and my daughter Emma, and nobody liked it much. It was hard to write, because I wanted to make a point about how dogs die, and I see it as a celebratory story. I just couldn’t put it together.

I decided that I lost it, couldn’t write well anymore. Had to find something else to do. I brooded, pouted, walked in the woods. Maria was off working, so I had nobody to whine to. I read a sad story about Haiti, and then drove to get the new Michael Lewis book about the madness of our financial system. Then I tried to meditate, and couldn’t and felt myself crashing. Then I got a bowl of tomato soup and took Frieda and Izzy for a walk, and then it occurred to me that I had missed the point of my story, and I went back to the computer and rewrote it, and I will look at it in the morning and see. I think I might have figured it out. I hope Maria gets home soon.