Two-Oh-Twelve

When I picture the coming years, I'm content, an ascetic (which, unfortunately, means, inevitably, that, try as I might, my lifestyle often contradicts itself), sitting on the front porch of my little house in the desert, with Otto by my side.  (Otto's my dog of an as-yet-undetermined breed.)  He doesn't laugh at me for singing off-key on purpose or for salsa dancing in the kitchen while I wait for my pasta to finish boiling, and he keeps me warm at night in a bed too big for one.  On the days I spend writing and painting (because, of course, it's understood that I will take up painting, my true passion) in the backyard, he sits on my feet, preferring our solidarity to puppy adventures.  No matter how long I linger over it, my morning cup of coffee never falls below the temperature of boiling, and I am present at every sunrise and sunset.  All other details--how did I get here? where do I go next?--are irrelevant.