Paradigm shift

“We’re goin’ home, Big Meat-head,” I said to my dog. I call her “Meat-head” because like “pot-heads” want marijuana, my dog wants meat.
“Goin’ home to our strange little life I’m told isn’t strange.”
I suppose I’ve made what over-educated hoity-toities call a “paradigm shift.”
Ever since my wife died five years ago I felt I was living “a strange little life.” Unable to travel or do much, living in a house full of junk.
I happened to mention this to my counselor last visit.
“What’s strange about it?” she asked. Part of my counselor’s duty is to help me become my own judge.
She had a point.
Our “strange little life” has become “our strange little life that’s supposedly not strange.”
RE: “house full of junk.....”
I daycare my dog with a friend I call “Paster Bill.” We used to work at the Messenger newspaper in Canandaigua. He and his wife (also ex-Messenger) established a pet-grooming business in Canandaigua, and they daycare my dog when I’m in town — like at the YMCA.
We remain good friends because we’re both bleeding-heart liberals. “Paster Bill” is also studying to become a paster.
Occasionally I bother him.
“Believe me,” he says; “your house is not full of junk. I’ve seen worse.”
Okay, a lot is put away. But opening my closets spills tons of junk. Components of my old hi-fi, bicycles, a leaky computer-printer, many of my wife’s accoutrements. A spare room still has bedding used years ago by my wife’s mother — who died about a year ago.
The other day my neighbor noticed my old cross-country skis. “You oughta put that stuff on Craig’s List,” he said. As if I’d wanna.
I used to sell stuff in the “Swap-Sheet,” which was before Craig’s List.
I’m not interested in parrying geeks at all hours, looking for something-for-nothing.
“How come your car’s so rusty?”
“What did you expect for $500?”
I’m not interested in fielding such gibberish, particularly slobbering phonecalls at 3 a.m.
“I wouldn’t wanna do it either,” my counselor says.
Dust-bunnies accumulate for lack of someone to clean ‘em up.
“Oh well,” I think; “despite the dust I’m still here.”
So my counselor had a point, and I guess I accommodated.
“What difference does it make?” she says. “When yer gone, ya can’t be guilty.
Plus there are estate-sales.”

• My current dog is “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s thirteen, and is my sixth Irish-Setter, a high-energy dog. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. [Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder.] By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad. She’s my fourth rescue.)
• RE: “Meat-head.....” —Every dog we (I) ever owned I’ve nicknamed “Meat-head.” With me Scarlett knows of herself as “Meat-head.” (A previous dog, who was rather small, I called “Little Meat-head.”)