How the Black Dog Got Gashed

So far, for the majority of my life, I have been a snotty wheezer. I never breathed through my nose and smelt through my mouth. At school I used to love running but only the short distances because by the time the asthma had set in, it was the end of the race. Quite convenient really. Not surprisingly, cross country was a disaster. So drugs have progressed and I had stopped running many many years ago. And then, by various means, the two combined and I discovered running again which is actually a whole other story. The point is (the one that impacted the fate of my black dog Freya) is that I went for a run yesterday morning. First time in ten days, squirm out of bed to discover a glorious morning and the running urge upon me. So, we did and Freya, all Kelpie/Collie mutt of her, loves it, adores it. Makes lots of squeaky noises when she sees me in my skanky, haven't-been-washed-since-last-time-but-what-the-hell running clothes (so really it should be, when she smells me) .

We went down to the track that runs alongside the Tamar. It's an interesting track to me. It used to belong to the weekend family walks of my childhood. Back in the Aerobic Eighties when every available walking track included treated pine lunging posts, steps and other obscure constructions for your health. Whatever they were, they were also perfect horse jumps for a girl and her invisible (but so real!) pony. It's a strange atmospheric path in parts, winding its way amongst Melaleucas and tidal detritus from the river. Through the trees you can glimpse the semi-industrial remnants on the Invermay side. Fantastic old marine relics rusting away happily and, on the river, rowers being yelled at by hunched figures in tinnies.

For my ~6km run, Freya does about 12km. She quickly disappears into the distance, roaming back via various sniff points, bark points, wee points, touches base with me and then is off again. Highlights of this run were the close encounter with a duck, a therapeutic mud bath (black dog turns into grey, dredded dog) and then a mysterious failure to touch base. I didn't think much of it; she eventually returned refreshed after a swim in the Tamar and I was grateful for the bomb's interior. So it was a bit of a shock to get home and suddenly realise that the floorboards were being drenched in blood as well as river water. The gash was deep and long and looked like her foot should have been dangling. Instead of inertia, she had the shock madness and careened around the house in a frenzy. A massive contrast to the dog now crashed out on the rug, stiched up leg twitching nervously as she dozes.

The vet couldn't believe that it was Freya with a legitimate reason to visit the surgery. She is famous in the area that I live in for her self-lead runs. If she doesn't get far, she invariably ends up at the vet clinic because she adores them down there. If she has the appropriate window of opportunity (ie, the louvre window in the laundry being left ajar) she ends up in Kings Meadows or Punchbowl (more ducks).

Time to go and disrobe the Q from his Robot pj's.

The Fly-leaf makes tentative beginnings

"Fly-leaf is a blank leaf forming part of something printed, especially one between the cover & the title page of a book, or at the end of a circular or leaflet; it is not another name for a leaflet, which is, however, sometimes called a fly-sheet." (From Fowler's Modern English Usage c. 1926. My copy of which has never been quite since I left it in the garden overnight, many years ago. I'm sure the snails tended its pages with love.)

I like the idea that this space is the blank leaf behind my surface; onto which I write my name and date and perhaps a little more over time. The title, I have yet to confirm.

And so I begin this new journal. A prod into this virtual world that I have become addicted to of late. It feels like a natural progression. An interesting leap from my addiction to page filling Moleskin journals with brown card covers. I have a particular friend who is loaded everyday with an email of Gillian-ness. This doesn't feel too different which surprises me. Actually, it worries me a little too. Who am I writing to here? Probably me and my ego at present! Yay for that. The other worry is that this will consume me. I am good at
being consumed and, come to think about it, consuming. But I have a thesis that I'm meant to be creating. Will this become the textual fix that should be being placed elsewhere on my computer or will it aid my old word-love to resurface? It will be interesting to see what unfolds.

It all brings to mind an exhibition that I visited recently at the Design Centre. Grainy blue photographs of divers tumbling off the King Bridge into the Tamar River. Gleeful. And so I leap. . .