If it isn't the fucking dog next door, it's my own bloody cats disturbing my beauty rest. Last two nights, Simba, reputed to have an indeterminate amount of brain damage, has awakened me twice during the course of the night so he could be put outside. Unconscionable. Begging to be addressed. So when I found him this afternoon, sleeping peacefully at the foot of my bed, I woke him up! Told him he was a fuckwit, and didn't deserve to rest so sweetly. Put him outside. He appeared to be... confused. I was so tired I didn't have the energy to feel bad about hassling him.
Well, the sun was out, so off we went on a shorter walk for Mother, but she still started having a weird spell. She has a cold, it seems, and probably isn't sleeping well, but she can't remember. She seems more tired than usual. She rallied for Hairdo Day, however!
I managed an abbreviated run down to the Nautilus, and dragged a copy of the PI's recreation insert around with me, as it had great photos of Index, WA, of its compact granite cliffs our son likes so well. I thought perhaps the sight of those sun-drenched walls would inspire my workout; hmmm, mixed results.
Had to call the neighbors again last night after 9:30 p.m., as their hairy little dachshund was yelping again for hours. No one answered, so I left a tired yet polite message, and the dog was taken in shortly thereafter. I am desperate for sleep.
Dipped into Moby again, a couple of chapters full of soliloquies by various crew members regarding the doubloon nailed to the mast; very Shakespearian in flavor. Ishmael's voice is a mixture of omniscience and authorial intrusion this late in the game. (about page 500)
Read a bit more of Margaret Atwood's book about writing; I do admire her intelligence and humor very much.