A little story

My husband tells a story about a junk yard which was protected by two big, fierce dogs.  When the yard was open, the dogs contented themselves with occasional menacing grimaces, but as soon as the gates were locked they became hell hounds, ready to protect the junk to their utmost.  Well, one Monday the yard owner noticed that some of his property was missing (I've always wondered how junk yard owners keep track of their inventory.  But that's another thought balloon), despite his vicious guards.  This went on for several weeks.  Finally the owner decided to visit over the weekend.  When he arrived and made some noise, he was astonished to see his pooches trot cheerfully out, ready to greet their visitor.  It turns out that the dogs were conditioned to be nice to visitors during business hours, and turn on the mean only after the day was over.  The thieves had figured this out, and had happily taken advantage of the situation.

All of this is a round about explanation for why I was up at 6:30 a.m. on a misty moisty Mother's Day Sunday.  Thanks, dog!  Other than being awakened before the crack of dawn, I had a lovely day with my mom (I love you, Mom!), Dad, kids, and honey.  I hope you also had a peaceful, love filled day.

I'm a morning person

Much to my night-owl husband's dismay, I'm a morning person. And not just a morning person -- I like to be up when everyone else is sleeping.  There's something about a sleeping house that is remarkably peaceful. Since getting the alarm clock, er, dog, I've expanded to enjoying a sleeping city. This morning, no thanks to the time change, we walked again in the dark. At long last we were accompanied by the scolding of robins and crows who were unaccustomed to our company. I was delighted; robins are the first sign of spring, and their song cheers me like nothing else.  In addition, we witnessed garbage trucks trolling the alleys -- a sight that thrills me now that I have children who get excited by heavy machinery -- and groggy bathrobe-clad people taking the recycling bins to the curb.  My personal symphony also included the rumble of freight trains announcing in long wails their arrival and departure through the rail yard.  Sometimes I am privileged to hear the roar of lions or trumpeting of elephants from the zoo near our home.  Today I did not, but as soon as I returned home I was treated to the cacophany of a waking family.

Walking after dark

We have a new dog. This is an exciting development in our household, although Teddy has fit in so well as to make her arrival almost a non-event, except that the back yard fence is finally being rebuilt (to my great pleasure). I tell you only because I now find myself walking the neighborhood at a time of night when I in the past allowed myself to lapse into the doldrums of television.


Evening walks are a sensory experience. Without the definition of daylight, my relationship with my environment becomes much more tactile - previously duck-able branches and leaves part my hair as I forge through them; I cannot time my passage through the sprinkler; plants easily identified in the morning are instead appreciated solely for their scent, thrown across the grass by ungainly dog and leash. Streetlights throw japanese leaf prints on the sidewalk, dappled art disrupted but undisturbed by my passage. I find myself lost just yards from home, disoriented by unfamiliar landscaping. Fortunately Teddy guides me, lurching against her lead, home.