wasillaalaskaby300

Royce has an appointment to see the vet tomorrow morning at 10:45. Today, as usual, his appetite has been voracious and what he is doing right here is ordering me to "give me some chow, right now! Brown cow! Brown cow chow! Right now!"

But I fed him salmon chow instead - senior blend. I have fed him a number of times and, as was suggested to me in comments, have raised his water bowl up about half-an-inch off the floor, just in case that might help.

I have not found any blatant vomit today, although at one point I stepped in something slippery and almost invisible - a thin film of something. Maybe it came out of Royce, maybe out of someone else; I don't even know what it was.

Royce sure has gotten thin and frail, though.

Some readers speculate that it is because he misses Kalib, but he certainly has not lost his appetite - just his weight.

Basically, with Margie gone and Kalib and family moved out, I spend my entire days alone with only the cats. I do catch glimpses of Caleb in the morning, if I get up before he goes to bed. Usually, he is wrapped up in his video war game, or watching golf.

I took a pledge that this week that I would eat no junk food from beginning to end - and drink no Pepsi or any other soda pop. Despite the wrong impression I have managed to convey, I do not really drink a huge amount of pop. Maybe four Pepsis and half-a-root-beer per week on average.

But this week - none, not one soda pop - no junk food.

I will see if it makes any difference in how I feel when the week is over.

So far, it hasn't made any difference at all.

I enjoy the company of cats and I am a person who does very well alone, but when lunch time came, I had to get out where people were circulating and eating and I had eliminated junk food as a means to do so.

The first alternative that came to my mind was the new place, The Alaska Bagel. It is fast food, but not junk food.

So here I am, placing an order with Johanna while her colleague, Erik, peers out from behind the bagels.

I ordered a ham and Swiss sandwich on a seasame seed bagel and helped myself to a glass of cold water that I poured from a pitcher. To any who might be having a difficult time reading Erik's right arm, it says, "Behold, I send you as sheep among wolves." His left, "As for me and my house, we will serve the..." the last word kind of fades from sight, but I strongly suspect that it reads, "...Lord."

The sandwich was good, the water, excellent, prepared just right.

On my home, I found myself behind this car and I was puzzled by the critter in the back window. It looked pretty cute, but something about it just didn't seem quite right. I hoped that there would be plenty of cross traffic at the stop sign just ahead, so that I would have time to study the critter, but there wasn't. The car briefly stopped, quickly took off and turned away fast.

Still, I got this shot off and, having looked closely at it, I have now concluded that it is not a real critter at all, but a toy - a stuffed cat.

Concerning the pawn shop ahead, I told the following story back in April, when I photographed Charlie playing my Martin Classical guitar, but I have picked up a number of new readers since then, so I will tell it again.

I first saw my Martin guitar in the display window of a music store in Globe, Arizona, in 1976. I went inside, told the salesman I wanted to play it, he took it out of the window, gave it to me, I took a seat, and played a bit of Bach on it.

Never had a guitar sounded so good in my hands. I had to have it. It cost $1800 and my annual income as the editor, reporter, writer, photographer, ad salesman and delivery boy of the Fort Apache Scout tribal newspaper was $10,000. I didn't care. I put some money down on lay-away and kept paying until that day came, a year or so later, when I finally brought that Martin guitar home.

I did love that guitar and I even played it in a master class with Christopher Parkening. Many people used to think that I was a superb guitarist, but that was only because they did not know better. Many said I should become a professional musician. I knew better.

There is only one way to be superb on the classic guitar, and that is to play and play and play and play. Practice, practice, practice. I'm a photographer, I'm a writer. I hardly have time for both. How could I be a classical guitarist, too? I can create original works through my camera and keyboard; through my guitar I could only interpret the works of others - and not nearly as good as those with true musical talent were already doing.

So I put the guitar aside.

Once, during one of those times when I was broke and in dire need of money, I took my Martin guitar to this pawn shop. The man behind the counter considered himself to be sharp, smart, and savvy, wise to the ways of hoodwinkers hoping to get bucks for junk. He asked me how much the guitar was worth. I told him.

He laughed loud, long and scornful. "What kind of fool do you take me for?" he ridiculed. "I know guitars. That one, it's worth $150 at most. I'll loan you $50 for it - only because I'm so generous."

So I walked out of his store with no money but my guitar still in its case, leaving behind a chuckling man who had no idea of the potential profit he had just forfeited had he given me an honest loan and then I defaulted.

I often imagine that the day will come when I am able to devote myself fully to my books and this blog. I imagine that I might then find myself with a little time to play my guitar again.

No, no... It will never happen. My guitar playing days are in the past.

You will recall Tim, the professional carpenter who appeared here just last month, having finally raised two walls on the workshop that he had begun working towards slowly for four years. Despite the high winds, which just this afternoon tapered down to maybe about 20, I found him working on it when I took my walk.

Tomorrow, Tim says, the trusses will begin to go up. As for me, our walls are still almost totally bare of photos. He is way ahead of me.

Further along on my walk, this kid and I noticed each other.

Could this be the same kid, getting off his school bus?

Almost no matter what, I must take my 4:00 PM coffee break when All Things Considered comes on the radio. As usual, I stopped the Metro Cafe drivethrough.

It looks like I won't be joining Margie in Arizona after all. It's a matter of survival. I must stay here and see if I can drum up some work. Even if I never play it again, I don't ever want to take my guitar back to another pawn shop.

I think of all the rifles that I took to pawn shops - and a pistol, too - thinking that I would pay back the loan and get them back but now those guns are owned by others and who knows how they have been used?

Now I won't see Margie until February 2, but that's how its got to be.

I don't want to lose my Martin guitar.

Update: Perhaps some of you have wondered as I have how you might help the people of Haiti. Here is a link with different aid providers that you can contribute to:

http://www.npr.org/blogs/thetwo-way/2010/01/haiti_earthquake_how_to_help_a.html?sc=fb&cc=fp