How I had a gun pulled on me by my neighbor is, I was walking Honey down a quiet, safe street in my quiet, safe neighborhood. And, okay, I can already hear your cries of protest: oh god, Dave, you had that shit coming, brother. I know, I know. But just hear me out, okay? . . .

More than any of us, Honey loves when Chubby visits. They are really in love these two. They play non-stop. And kiss and lick. In the morning, they are at their most crazy. They roll on the bedroom floor and make groaning noises like little monsters. And so I get up with them and we go outside in the cool dawn air which feels more and more like spring these days, thank God. And they begin their morning running and playing and sniffing and pooping. And I stand there for a moment in that silence specked with bird chirps and woodpecker knocks. And eventually I go back inside and make coffee and watch them run around from the window. And I like to stand there and imagine how these interactions go. . . .

It's time I come clean: It's not working, this not blogging thing. In fact it's having the reverse effect. I'm actually writing less than I was before. So I've started sneaking in posts here and there. And I've tried to pretend like they don't count because mostly they've been fictional. But they do. They count. . . .

The bar has become crowded. There's a woman sitting alone behind you wearing a dark green hoodie. Her chair is close to yours. Too close. It's weird. Maybe she's listening to us. You sip your beer, then you apply some lip gloss. You're not eating your veggie burger because that last cigarette put your stomach off. I say: "I can imagine that there are people who would pay money to read what I write. " . . .

My dad used to tell me there were two Rita's. I never really knew what he meant by that, but I always felt vaguely guilty about it. But he assured me it was a "gift." He said he had two "hims," as well. He also said I would be like him one day. And Christ, I hope that isn't true. Because both "hims" were killed by a black bear as they were escaping from their mistress's second-story window. See? Turns out at least one of his hims was an idiot. I have a deep suspicion I'm harboring one of those myself. An idiot. Excuse me: a gift. . . .

And I think about how the day before I had been crying into my hardwoods, scratching at the floor and thinking of the best way to die. And how the night before I held that bartender down on the dirty floor of the supply closet at the Main Street Tavern (I'm stronger than I look) and I rode that drink-slinger's Salty Dog until it wept. . . .