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ramshackle improvisational quality
Thursday, December 28 2017
My abstinence from caffeine continued today, as did brutally-cold conditions. For stimulation, I drank Chinese ephedra tea, though, as I've noted before, its effects are rather different from caffeine. Ephedra tends to make me cranky, at least late in the day, and (at least when I am also suffering from caffeine withdrawal) it seems to contribute to a nagging feeling of something like clinical depression (which is not something I normally struggle with).
While I was up in the laboratory working, Gretchen spent much of the day down in the recuperation fort with Neville. He escaped at least once, mostly by pushing furniture aside. Gretchen brought in some window screens to serve has higher barricades while I extended the ring of exterior tension around the whole fort using some more of the rope that was already helping to keep things from drifting apart. The woodstove itself (and the pedestal it sits on) serves as the anchor for the whole structure. It's nice to be able to lash rope around its legs (the stove's coldest parts) to secure adjacent structures. The ramshackle improvisational quality of the recuperation fort now gives it a passing resemblance to the homeless compounds we'd seen under the I-580 overpass in Oakland, California, though such compounds are unlikely to have been created entire to limit the movements of a dog recovering from expensive knee surgery.
The recuperation fort the other day, before it looked quite so much like a homeless camp.
[REDACTED]
Tonight I slept in the recuperation fort, and all went well until some hubbub in the middle of the night that attracted Ramona's attention. Her commotion work Neville from his sleep, and he became so excited that he managed to burst out of the fort (the gate of which was, at the time, secured only by a bungee cord). I quickly woke up and scrambled to my feet, but it was too late; Neville and run out into the brutally-cold night, disappearing down the mountain goat path heading from behind our woodshed southward to the Stick Trail. This was not good; Neville was not supposed to be running, and he most particularly wasn't supposed to be running over such an uneven surface. The only saving grace in all this was the continued softness of the several inches of snow, which must've helped cushion his footfalls. I shouted for Ramona and Neville, and Ramona soon returned, grinning like the foolish dog she is. As for Neville, what the fuck? I went down to the Stick Trail and shouted for him. Meanwhile Gretchen was up and had joined in the search.
After several minutes, I heard Neville's collar jangling as he came back northward on the Stick Trail. He was walking at a leisurely pace, the way he always does when heading homeward. He didn't seem to have injured himself with his little stunt, though perhaps he'd done unseen damage. I don't know how it works inside the knees of a dog recovering from TTA surgery. I scooped him up and carried him in my arms all the way back to the house. After getting Neville back into the recuperation fort and securing the gate with several methods, I eventually managed to fall back to sleep.
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