Friday, July 25--

7:51 a.m.-

I un-strapped an oar and shoved back to the dock an hour ago, disappointed and angry, though still hopeful that I would be able to start Motor. Back to the car for the sparkplug wrench. Swapped the new sparkplugs for the pair of old, then pulled Motor's starter cord many more times without success. Dried off the gas-fouled new sparkplugs, put them back in and yanked another ten times. Reloaded the boat onto Trailer, drove back to town and out the other side to Duke's where I pleaded and sniveled for him to rescue us and start Motor for me--no matter the price. (Inside the mind is a luxuriant and dreadful place to play.)

After twenty minutes of abrading a blister along the inside of my left "f-you" finger Motor fired, rainbowing the river with sneezed-out sprays of gas. Two more pulls and it wheezed blue smoke and shuddered, but continued to fire on one cylinder, coaxing the other along until it too sent out waste and sputtered to life. During these terrible twenty minutes EZ sat on the deck and sniffed.

I almost decided against the shortcut channel because it wasn't it. It was it, though disguised wearing a tight corset with a very narrow waist. Three week's growth of tightly packed tall weeds and an eighteen-inch wide clear channel for Motor to push. Impossible to imagine now in late July that such solid blockage wasn't here in May.

Water is low. The marsh where Kinsey and I towed two logs into in May, through two-foot deep vacant water, is now bare sand with grass growing high. Both logs are hidden somewhere in there.

It's firm enough to walk on and crouch down on and, except for one mosquito bite on my butt, a spot to defecate upon.

I stopped at the vet's on Wednesday to buy EZ three cans of liver pâté. Dr. Ray was at the counter finishing explaining to a lady why the Newfoundland leashed to an eyehook on the wall might be scooting disagreeably along the woman's living room carpet.

"Impacted anal glands."

The woman blushed and hurried the dog away.

I took the opportunity to mention EZ's painful past week. He talked with me, "it's not a cancer as such, but epiluses are strange growths and don't behave predictably. Let's try giving her cortisone. It's an anti-inflammatory and may reduce the swelling."

I gave her a pill-and-a-half after work. She wolfed it down without trauma. I gave her another half-can of the expensive food and she gobbled that down too, and slept on the bed with me all night, something she hasn't done for six months.

She met me at the screen door with a grin last night as I pulled in and parked. Then barked with ardor as I got out and walked up the path, swirled around my feet as I went inside, and batted her sick-dog drug dish across my path into the kitchen. I picked it up. She snorted and grinned. I crushed up another dosage of pills and smoothed the orange powder into liver pâté and held it down to her lips. She licked it away, then licked the spoon clean and washed her left foreleg, as is her idiosyncratic custom after being fed attentively.

She has to be starving; her haunches have narrowed during the past week. I suspect she is able to eat her usual food again but is holding-out for more tasty grub. And she prefers being served in person.

I put a handful of dry Candidae kibble into the dish and poured warm water over. Set it on the floor by the table were she's become excited to eat. She sniffed it and slunk away. But it was gone this morning.

9:05-

A mink is exploring us from a hollow log at the shore, dashing up the angled bark, flicking its tail and narrow brown torso free of sparkle water. A sandhill crane "awked-k-k-ed" through the woods a short distance away.

9:16-

Pulled up on Bald Head to give EZ a chance to stretch and pee and wade--or swim--and get a drink, but not, my God, roll in dead stinky stuff. The eastern sun colors her back, and she sits breathing easily with her tongue-tip slightly airing. It is a calm morning; serenity is painted in the air and on the fresh succulent greens sprouting and dense everywhere near and far.

EZ sniffs the sweet air and lowers her nose to the rounded top of Bald Head. Nostrils contract inquisitively beside a nugget of ... dirt? She nibbles it, then swallows and moves on to another morsel of mud six inches away. Not stopping to smell it she gobbles it down.

"NO!" I shout, realizing what she is eating.

She slinks, circles, wades for a gulp of fresh water, emerges, shakes, and licks up another two deer turds before I holler again and clatter the oars and demand that she get back in the boat and, "lay down right now".