If I had to guess--not that I have any special knowledge, but just for the fruitless task of stating an opinion--I guess that the minute that the market hears some bad news it is going to bolt like a skittish colt again. I don't think for a minute that we've seen the worst of this correction. We have only had investor cognition that the problem in the credit markets really is a problem. Further, if the magnitude is bigger than the market's expectations--and frankly, I don't see much quantification of the magnitude--then that skittish colt is going to hit a yellow-jacket's nest.
This weekend was more event-filled than normal. Unfortunately, I had to put Chloe, my geriatric poodle, down. She's been steadily deteriorating. She was deaf and blind. Her simple, shadow existence was pain-free and revolved around sleeping, piddling on the floor, and eating. Most recently she stopped eating. Yesterday I noticed that her eye had puss coming from it. I suspect that she had an abscessed tooth. She had terrible teeth--apparently a hallmark of poodles.
She hated baths, hated to be clipped and was very particular about her feet. Forget about brushing her teeth. This is a dog that we found in the wild some years ago. She also had two other comrades. One was found dead on the road by a neighbor. My husband, kind hearted soul that he is, buried it and then rescued the other two. We named them Sophie and Chloe. They were the most miserably looking dogs (they are miniature poodles) you could imagine. Scraggly, long nails, detritus in their hair (which continues to grow unless clipped). Sophie was so nasty and smelly I had to take scissors and clip close to the skin as the outside of her coat was a matted mess. But....they were not thin, so obviously they were quite effective in foraging.
These dogs were never able to learn effective potty training. Thank goodness we have no carpet. Sophie met her demise under the tire of my car, running out to greet me. She had done it for years, but this particular time, she ended up under my wheel. It was not a happy day. She died quickly, but not before biting me badly enough through the joint of my left ring finger. I had to go to the hospital and cancel a business trip.
We estimate that Chloe was about 17 or 18. She had a good life, even though she would not submit to the ministrations (grooming) to keep her looking cute. She was a rugged girl from having to fend for herself for however long in the wild. So I buried her under the redbud, next to Greta. I imagine that before my life comes to an end, the red bud will be the hub to the spoke of beloved pet carcasses. Perhaps, even mine (ashes) one day.
Hold onto your hat.