Booker
“I love that this morning’s sunrise does not define itself by last night’s sunset.”
Like furry gargoyles, our two cats, Giese and Pudgy, perch on the headboard of our bed. Even though they have free-choice kibble, their expectation is that I serve up a can of wet food. Daily. And by daily I mean at 7 A.M.
Or else.
If I sleep too long into the morning they begin choreographed pillow dives near my head. After the third or fourth “whoomp” of cat cannon-balling I wake up, but with no small amount of protesting.
They always act innocent but I swear I see them high-fiving each other in the hallway as I rub the sleep from my eyes. The thing is, once they get their food I am ignored for the next five hours… aka treat time. Remind me again why I love cats?
My husband has left for the day, and the house feels his absence. It’s quiet, calm, and oddly empty. I like it, and I don’t. Maybe if I walk the dog my head will clear.
The quiet of home
I hook Booker to the leash. He prances, and wiggles, and converses in Siberian husky “speak.” Our daily jaunts mean more to him than food…unlike certain @#$% cats. Oops. I wanted a clear head and happy heart.
I do my best to get my gloves on before Booker yanks me out of the garage. It’s amazing how much airtime my feet get when 90 pounds of dog decides now now now time to be on our way.
As much as I don’t want to be awake yet, the morning is a nice one. I inhale deeply and cast my eyes to the sky. For some reason that upward action causes me to say a silent prayer of gratitude. “Thank you for this day, and for this beautiful world.”
Oblivious to my meditation, Booker heads into the ditch to sniff something lumpy I’m sure I don’t want to know about. I hope that whatever it is, is too far-gone to be stinky or dog delicious. Thankfully it doesn’t hold his attention. He pees on it and we move on.
I make a mental note that I should do that more often too. The moving on part, that is. Peeing on things gets complicated. Particularly in public.
I assume.
Don’t judge me.
Hoarfrost
The ground, frozen, waits for snow. You would think a biege landscape would be ugly, but no. Hoarfrost delicately outlines grass, leaves, and twigs. The crystalized world around me is breathtaking and magical. It’s as though Ma Nature, bored, found her glue gun, an extra large jar of glitter, and got busy.
I use the tip of my shoe to unearth a “bedazzled” oak leaf. With all my heart I wish I created art with as much imagination and wild abandonment.
Bedazzled oak leaf
Booker stops and wags his tail. He thinks the object in my hand might be a biscuit. I let him sniff the leaf and then release it back to the earth. Can a dog look disappointed? Yep.
I ruffle his fur and tell him he’s a good boy. All is forgiven, and his pink tongue lolls from the side of his mouth in a toothy smile.
I make another mental note to do more of that too. Forgiveness. Not tongue lolling.
Geez. Two mental notes and the day has hardly begun. Good thing the cats got me out of bed.
Wait. What? Did I say that?
