tiny terrorist

i check the news to tell me what i know

it’s nothing new. everyday, a new horror, a warning and a one pot recipe for chickpeas. i place my phone face down on the counter, feed the dogs and open the back door. it’s too early for my knees to be working so i penguin waddle to the hammock and think maybe today is the end of summer. maybe today i won’t feel so dried out, the life drained out of me by the heat, all the fans and the poor air conditioning coughing out cold air, sometimes i miss the fog and the bay and all the water surrounding the impossible hills. i lived in the city so long i built calves like a postal worker. like Phong, our mailman Charlie barks high holy hell at on our porch but lets him pet him on the street. living with a chihuahua is like living with a tiny terrorist who has a restraining order on delivery people and canvassers.

he means well.

we’ve never invested in a doorbell in all the years we’ve lived here.