~*~ MiSA's HOME PAGE ~*~

I have been asked to provide a character reference, and I am going to, and I want it noted that I am doing so voluntarily, which is not a word that gets used about me very often.

This is Willow. She is a labrador, like me, except white, which I understand was not her decision. She belongs to a friend of daddy's — daddy has a friend; I have checked; it's confirmed — and every so often she comes over, and when she comes over the day is cancelled and replaced with Willow.

She is my best friend. I don't say that lightly. I own one stick, one hedgehog, one couch, two people and now one (1) best friend, and I would like the inventory updated.

Here is what we do. We play. That's it. That's the whole agenda. We play in the yard and we play on the deck and sometimes we go to the beach together, and I want to address the beach, because regular readers will know my position on the sun and may be confused.

The beach is different. The beach has the ocean in it, and the ocean, as far as I can tell, is a cold air machine that somebody left on and forgot to put a door on. You can walk straight into it. Nobody says "later." Nobody says "off." It is the only cold air I have ever been allowed to enter without filing anything first, and I would like whoever is in charge of it to know that I have noticed and I approve.

We play until one of us falls over. Then the other one falls over, out of solidarity. Then we drink an enormous amount of water — Willow does this by putting her whole foot in it, see above — and then we go back to playing, because neither of us has ever once learned anything, and I think that is what friendship is.

She also assists with my work. This is a photograph of the brown truck being inspected by two dogs, which is one more dog than it has ever been inspected by, and which I think sends a message. The door was open. I have never seen the door open. There were boxes in there and there were shelves, and there was — I checked thoroughly, I had my whole head in — no snack. Not one. Zero snacks, now divided between two dogs. I asked the cat whether zero divided by two is still zero, and she said nothing, which I took as a yes.

The poodle was invited to assist. The poodle opened one eye, from the blanket, and closed it again. I love her. She was not helpful.

And then, every time, it ends the same way. We come inside. We get on the couch. And we are asleep before anyone can say "off the couch, Misa," which is a sentence that now has to be said twice, and is, and doesn't work either time.

I want to be clear about the couch, because I have taken a public legal position on the couch and I stand by it. The couch is mine. Willow is on it under licence. The licence is revocable, non-transferable, and has never once been revoked, and it won't be, because she is my best friend and she is asleep and she is warm.

✎ Willow, if somebody reads this to you in a voice: come back soon. Bring nothing. You have never brought anything and it has been perfect.

Enormous news in this household. My mother is getting married.

There has been a great deal of activity. Fabric has been discussed. People keep arriving and looking at things and saying "ohhh" in a particular voice. And at some point in all of this, somebody put a veil on my head.

I want to be precise about what happened, because I think the record matters. I did not ask for the veil. I did not consent to the veil. But nor did I remove the veil, because I am not an animal, and also because I could tell from the noises everybody was making that I looked incredible.

Now. Nobody has actually confirmed that I am the bride. But — and I want you to follow my reasoning here — nobody has denied it either. I have worn the veil. I have been photographed in the veil. In many cultures that is the entire ceremony.

My questions, which remain unanswered:

• Is there going to be food at this thing
• Is there a plate for me at this thing
• Is there cake, and if so, whose
• Am I walking anybody down anything
• Has the poodle been given a role, because if the poodle has been given a role and I have not, I will be raising it

I support this marriage completely and I am extremely happy for my mother. My support is conditional on cake. I don't think that's unreasonable. I think that's just clear communication.

It was mommy's birthday, and I was put to work.

They sat us on the bench. They made cardboard signs. They said "MISA. MISA. Look at the camera." And I did not look at the camera, and I want to explain why, and the reason is at the top right of that sign.

They wrote "POODLE" and drew an arrow.

An arrow. Pointing at the poodle. As though somebody receiving this photograph might otherwise look at a small apricot curly animal and think "and who is that, a second Misa?"

I was not labelled. Let me be very clear about that. Nobody drew an arrow at me, because everybody already knows who I am. I am the one in every other photograph on this entire website. I don't need an arrow. An arrow, for me, would be redundant.

But I want it noted that the poodle got her own line of text on a sign celebrating somebody else's birthday, which is exactly the kind of thing that happens around here, constantly, and which I have simply learned to absorb.

✎ Happy birthday mommy. I mean that sincerely. I also received no cake, and I want both of those things in the same sentence so you understand the shape of my life.

People assume that because there is a cat in this house, the cat and I are rivals. People are wrong, and frankly people are being a little unimaginative.

The cat is my partner in crime. We have an understanding. We have, I would go so far as to say, an operation.

Here is how it works. She takes the fence line and the high ground, because she can get up there and I categorically cannot. I take the ground floor, the kitchen approach, and anything that falls off the barbecue. She notices things. I reach things. Between us there is very little in this yard that goes unaccounted for.

Every evening we go out onto the deck and we sit and we look at the property together, and we don't say anything, because nothing needs saying. That's what this photograph is. That's two professionals at the end of a shift.

She is a much better colleague than my actual sister, who I will get to.

I would like to address the rumours circulating in this household.

Yes, that is me. Yes, that is the milk. But I want everyone to understand the full context, which nobody in my family has been willing to consider, because they were too busy going "MISA. MISA. DROP IT." across the entire garden like a pair of hysterical people.

Here are the facts. The carton was on a counter. A counter is simply a high floor. I did not open the carton so much as the carton yielded. And critically — and I cannot stress this enough — nobody had fed me for over an hour. In that light I think what I did was less "stealing" and more "foraging," which is a beautiful and ancient tradition.

Daddy said the milk was "for coffee." I have never once been offered coffee. So who, really, is the thief here.

✎ UPDATE: I have been told that I am "not in trouble," but I am also "not getting any more milk," which is the exact punishment I would have received if I were in trouble. Curious.