Friday, July 09, 2010

Harnessed

"You are sentimental," he said. Because I kissed your harness before I gave it to the dog pound. It was not premeditated. It's just that it was yours and its synthetic feel reminds me of the softness of your fur, the curls in front and the caramel color which has now made me like orange, even though that used to be my least favorite color. Well, at least it's more of a rust-colored orange. Can't be going over to the other camp entirely.

Did you see how big the swan babies have gotten? The last day we walked together they were new. Mr. Swan was so protective the other day that he almost ate a small dog. You wouldn't have blinked an eye. Not you, the brave one who swam after the swan after you jumped/fell in the canal. He had his wings spread and was glorious in his whiteness, otherwise I would have noticed that you were walking too close to the edge. He came at you in full regalia but you steadfastly swam on, head on. A swan knows when it sees determination, I guess, because he hightailed it, or rather tucked in his tail and headed South. Not that that deterred you. As a mother I was fretful on the sidelines, but as a dog-in-spirit I was urging you on. Fearless. Luckily you stopped before the bridge and were willing to be pulled out, by your sturdy, red harness. You were feeling cooler after a swim, and quite a bit wet. You smelled of dog, wet dog, a wet dog with dry grass clinging to him, but exhilarated and I confessed to a desire to roll in the grass with you. I didn't though, I just kissed your harness at the kennel door. After all, it was the least I could do.

Thursday, July 08, 2010

The Written Word

I should love to write, tomes, volumes, a page, a sentence, something to empty my head and paint pictures in yours. I'd like to put down words that make you see what I see, the light on the canal, the changing grays and blues of the sky, the distance to the horizon and the butter on my bread. I'd like to have you dip it into the coffee of your soul and blend it into a mixture of your own tastes, your own interpretation, including jam of course. I'd like it to lift you out of your seat and make you want to dance a jig, then put you down lightly on a cushion of feathers, under which would lie a hidden stone, from the brook of my childhood running through the back yard. I'd like to give it to you like a gift, wrapped in pastel papers that whisper in your ear as you unwrap them, with a knot that is a challenge but not an impossibility keeping them closely ensconced until you can no longer help it but must untie it, taking the time it takes to figure out a puzzle on a cold, winter's evening by the fire. As you open it you will hear a sigh, barely audible, escape because I have been holding my breath waiting. Ahhh....