I'm bad at this blogging thing on a good day. Throw me a curve ball and I'm about three months worse.

Jet and I have been doing some running around town most of the summer, and my outreach has suffered. It's nothing insane, just stuff that needs to happen and stuff that gets in the way. The Brats are adjusting to their new home, so at least there's that. Denise showed up, reminding me how strange my life is sometimes. Still no sign of Angelica.

There's been no luck on the publishing angle. I've been sending copies of Angelica's journals around, but doors keep slamming in my face (virtually, but it's still pretty final). Nobody thinks it's real. Honestly, there's no reason they should, but it would be nice to have the publicity. Get the word out. Get more eyes out there searching for her.

Apart from that, I've been trying to lose myself in the fun bits of life when we're not dealing with the fallout. Jet discovered video games recently, so I scraped together and bought her a Nintendo DSi off Craigslist. She spends more time with her Nintendog than the real dog, who seems a little put out by the development. I'll watch him watch her play the game, tilting his head at her in confusion when random puppy barks come from the game system. He'll get wound up after a while, so I have to take him for a walk.

Actually, that reminds me. We were out walking last week when he stopped cold and wouldn't go any farther. It was one of those things where my nose was buried in my phone, so I didn't notice he stopped. When the leash ran out, I was rudely pulled back in mid-step--nearly dropped my phone on the concrete. He just stood there growling, and he wouldn't be reasoned with.

I was about to call off the whole walk (we were only a few blocks from the house) when this little boy said, "He knows."

I turned around. The kid was standing there, wearing a baseball tee and shorts, carrying a backpack whose top handle had pulled out. He was only wearing one hightop shoe, and at first, I thought he was one of the Brats. "Sorry?" I said. "What does he know?"

The boy just sighed. "Maybe walk by over there," he said, pointing to the other side of the street.

The dog just kept growling. The kid was black, so I was ready to accuse the dog of being a racist. Not that the kid seemed to notice or care that a bulldog didn't like him. "Okay, thanks," I said, tugging the leash.

"I'm sorry," said the boy as we crossed the street.

We did a loop and came back the same route, and I actually forgot all about the encounter. We were on the same road, same side (the sidewalk's in better shape), but this time, instead of stopping and growling, the dog was super interested in the spot he wouldn't even walk past before. I couldn't get him to leave, but at least my phone was in a pocket when he stopped.

He had his massive noggin buried in the overgrown bushes by the fence that walled off the tiny yard from the rest of the neighborhood. I kept tugging the leash to get him to move, but we both knew I don't have the weight or strength I'd need to budge him. With a triumphant bark that was more of an exhale with enunciation, he pulled himself out of the bushes, proudly holding a shoe in his mouth.

It was a hightop, and I'm not going to commit to saying it matched the single shoe that boy had been wearing. The shoe had been there through some weather. I don't think that was a splatter of mud across the toe. But that's all I'll say.

He seemed depressed when I told him to drop it. We went home. Jet was still playing her game. I hugged her from behind, and she yelled at me for distracting her. That just made me hug her tighter.