I was supposed to be in Iowa City this morning, drinking coffee at Java House before attending a pit bull workshop, where I was scheduled to speak. I love pit bulls. I love Iowa City. I was looking forward to this. But earlier in the week I made the mistake of thinking that my cold was just an allergy, and by Thursday I was bedridden, feverish, coughing, watery nosed, and somewhat delirious. Friday I felt a little better, got up, did laundry, walked the dogs, and had several people say "Oh my god you look terrible." So I did something I've never done before: I cancelled my little appearance. And I feel awful about it. Yet, this morning, after going to bed early, I'm still hacking up phlegm. And my mother will now read this and call to tell me to get to a doctor. OKAY, I will.
Still, I'd much rather be in a room with 70 other pit bull people, hearing stories about how ridiculous they can be.
My own little pit bull, Sula, woke me up at about five this morning, insisting it was time for her walk with Brando, which is how we start the day. And for some reason, her high-pitched yipping from her crate, next to my bed, made me think: She's really just like Paris Hilton.