Sunday, Dec. 7
1:29 p.m.

I wonder if Loverboy's parents think it strange that we live in virtually the same yard and yet they don’t see me for days on end. I’m active enough over here, never bored, but it’s safe to say I keep to myself quite a bit. I don’t have a strong need to socialize, apparently, though I do enjoy short get-togethers over coffee or a drink.

When I go outside, it’s often to walk around the yard. I don’t go into the "big" house, where L's parents and brother, and his brother's family, live in their old farmhouse that has been added onto and converted into something like a duplex. Instead, I stop to pet and talk to the hound that’s been chained up for five years because he chases cattle.

He’s a German Shepherd who failed his police-dog test. Loverboy’s nephew brought him from Calgary, thinking the farm would be a good home for him. But as soon as anyone around here hears about the cattle-chasing, they shake their heads and say “That dog is no good for anything.” Sometimes they say “Might as well be shot.” No one likes the idea of him chained up all the time, yet no one has offered him a home, and no one has the heart to shoot him.

The photo doesn’t do him justice either. He’s a gorgeous dog, bright (maybe he failed his RCMP test because he doesn’t frigging come when you call or listen when you tell him to stop grabbing your arms and legs with his Red Riding Wolf teeth) and full of spunk and daring-do. He’s friendly as hell, unless you’re a cat. I’ve taken him walking with me on a leash a couple times, but haven’t gotten into a habit like I meant to. I’d like to see him have a better life than what he’s got.

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Grandma's birthday dinner yesterday went well; I made three times too much rice, but just the right amount of sweet 'n' sour meatballs. Barney made her a cute card; I wish I'd scanned it before we left. It said:

"Happy Birthday, Grandma!
So, you're 86! That means you've had a lot of birthdays. Way to Go!"