WereTaxes

Haven't had much time for blogging lately. My time has been filled with werewolf patrols and taxes. 

Yelp. Oops. I meant "Yep". Taxes. I have a pretty sizable portfolio, do a lot of trading throughout the year. As such, I have to pay taxes. That's right. Just because I am a weredog does not mean I get to skate on taxes. I wish it did. 

It is hard getting my taxes together. I can only work on them at night. If I have to make calls, I have to save them up until a day when everyone is gone for most of the day and make them all at one time. 

One of my stocks is really killing me right now. Jones Soda. I bought it back about 10 years ago when it first went public. The high last year was in the 20s. It has dropped back dow around 5. Damn. I thought it would be the next Snapple.

Sharing my financial resources with my people, my families, has always been a difficult issue. I can't exactly hand them a check and say, "Thanks a lot, Mac. That's for all the left-overs."

A friend once asked me if I am a man or a dog. I am both. And neither. Every individual, of any species, must contend with dual nature. Men are good and bad. Women are feminine and masculine. Wolves are day and night. Dogs are tame and wild. Cats are just plain trouble. For the most part. And weredogs are dogs and men. Weredogs. 

Jack is two people. Big time. He is a coach and scoutmaster and loving father ad husband. He is also another man, a darker man. Some nights I hardly recognize him. He is passed out on the other couch next to me right now. 

Jack has been drinking, more and more lately. I've heard him say into the phone that he drinks at night to help him sleep. "The nights are hell," I've heard him tell Sherry. So, most nights he goes to bed drunk. A lot of help he'll be if I have to defend against home invaders.

A couple weeks ago, late at night, I was up late, right here, TV on, laptop on, my own mobile phone on the table. Somehow, Jack managed to get downstairs without me hearing him. I look up and there he is, looking at me, a very confused face. 

I didn't freak. I don't know why. I just said, "Go back upstairs, Jack. Go back to bed. You're dreaming." And he did. I should have been shocked, at least surprised. I wasn't. A dog gets to know his family.