The dog messed his bed again. This is the 2nd time in a row. He peed his bed twice last week. I'm sick of it. The mornings are chaotic. Clean the dog, clean the dog bed, fret over feedings and walks. Keep him from jumping on people. Keep him from hoovering up clumps of grass and tree fruit and tin foil and used chewing gum, whatever is edible, everything is edible in this dog's world.

No writing is getting done. Smoke, multiple coffee breaks, clean house, clean dog mess, cook, attend to random office jobs into the evening. Not to mention the emergencies that interrupt the day: a calf born on the slats, the gas gone in the bar, pub toilets leaking. When I do write, it's all a mess of words and half-thoughts, language as vomit, and I can't get into the stillness needed to edit properly. Untrained, like my fucking dog.

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