I feel like a big, old, fat, stupid dog at the shelter.
There are a some newspapers looking at me and that makes my tail wag.
Perhaps I'm not all that but like the old dog, it's a nice feeling when someone is paying attention. And then, when someone feeds me, I will sleep well.
One of the questions I've been asked is when can I start. I go to Google Maps, estimate the drive time, and respond with that number. Three hours. Two hours. Seven hours. Perhaps I should change the title of the blog to "Unencumbered Editor," which comes from the Latin, "Editor who has no cucumber." I think.
I'm trying, though, to not get my hopes up. That's happened a number of times through this process.
Now I've packed my hopes away with my other stuff in a friend's garage. Side note: Someone broke into the garage recently and didn't even open a box of my stuff. True story. Had they, image their horror. Who the hell reads Martin Buber anymore? "Ich und Du" was hardly a laugh riot. I am so pathetic that no one will steal my useless crap.
Nonetheless, if some newspaper adopts me despite my age all the accompanying smells, I will be the happiest old dog in the land.
Peace and kibble unto all of you my brothers and sisters.