Taking dictation:

Damn you’re lazy.
No I’m not–I’m working hard.
Hardly.
Up yours.
You too.
You say you love these little animals and don’t want to traumatize them again today, but what you really are doing is that you just don’t want to go through all the coaxing and carrying and driving and paying money.  You’re cheap.
No I’m not cheap, but they say one thing and then charge me twice as much.
You didn’t ask the right questions and didn’t take care of your other older pets well.
Up yours twice.
Same to you.
Jerk.
Freak.
I just don’t want to take any being to be prodded and pinched and given crap supposedly to boost their own freaking immune system against the normal bugs of earth life.  Pisses me off and hate it.  Hate doctors asking personal questions and trying to get me to poop in their bag or piss in their cup or take off my clothes and test me for crap that I’d just rather DIE from.
assholes.
You shouldn’t write that here.
up yours.
You shouldn’t say that either.

Why is loving something, someone, so troublesome?  Why do I freak about spending money on something that supposedly is to help me or the animals stay healthy?  Isn’t spending money just a sign of love?  It doesn’t feel that way.  Like insurance.  Paying month after month like a gambler in case I fall prey to the normal journey of human life and get sick, cancer, break a leg, whatever. 

My warrior is leaking through here.  I just want to take off to the end of the longest bus ride out of the city and lose myself in the deep woods.  I have cheese and crackers, a blanket and a book and I don’t want to come back for weeks.

I call on Diana–goddess of the forests–to be my scout in this briar-filled day of pinching, aching, and pouting.  She stands tall, bronze with weather, not young, not old, tending the fire of eternal warmth and beckons me to sit with her.  She witnesses my travels and I am heard, safe, and comforted.