Every morning around sunrise, I take the dogs out for a walk. By the time the sky starts to lighten, I’m generally into my second cup of coffee and I’ve read Heather Cox Richardson’s “Letter from an American,” checked the weather, read a couple of articles on NPR and the New York Times, and started the daily Wordle.
By this point, Vanessa has read me a few excerpts from The Daily Beast, possibly the Washington Post (to which she recently subscribed), and Twitter. I don’t have a Twitter account. And I don’t like to talk much in the morning, but I don’t mind listening. And she only reads me the juicy parts. I kind of like it.
Though I don’t always show it.
If it’s a lucky day, I’m done with Wordle by the time the sky outside our east-facing bedroom window starts showing off its rosy fingers of dawn (Sorry Homer–the blind one, not Simpson). If it’s not a lucky day, I may have to set Wordle aside and come back to it again. And sometimes again. And occasionally, even, again.
About this time, the dogs start getting restless. Little Lord Mittford, who sleeps at the foot of our bed, unless he can manage to slither up between us in the middle of the night, starts looking around the room and stretching. Cooper (a.k.a. Thumper) either comes into the bedroom, tail wagging ninety beats a minute (thump, thump, thump, thump), or he crawls out from under the bed, tail wagging ninety beats a minute. And Bobo, who sleeps in any part of the house he wants, starts darting in and out of the bedroom. If he licks my hand, he needs to pee.
So, Vanessa and I get up, dress, and she helps me hustle the dogs out the door.
The dogs do their morning business on nearby bushes and shrubs while I finish buttoning up my jacket, organizing my socks inside my muck boots, and generally readying myself for our morning trip down the hill. I always check to make sure I have at least one leash draped over my shoulders. I’ll need it for the trip back up the hill.
Somewhere between the top of the hill and the bottom of the hill, Mike joins us. Mike sleeps outside, where he likes to spend the night barking. We originally got Mike as a livestock guard dog, which means he should be sleeping in the back of the property with the sheep and goats. But Mike sees his own role as much larger than that. He sees himself as Guardian of the Realm. Midnight barking right under our bedroom window aside, we can’t complain. We’ve never lost a sheep or goat to coyotes.
By the time we get to the bottom of the hill by the pond (about 300 yards from the house), Bobo, Mitt, and Cooper are in a near frenzy, running around, sniffing out deer scat or mole rats or the lingering scent of passing mammals while Mike and I stand on the driveway, looking on, waiting for the excitement to come to an end. Mike has only one basic question for any creature that ventures onto the property: Are you a coyote? If the answer is yes, he will heap the Wrath of Mike upon you. If the answer is no, then help yourself. Take whatever trinkets you want.
Every morning, I am surprised by how quickly the light changes. It’s like, one moment I’m looking one way into mostly shadows and darkness, and then I turn around and someone turned the lights on. The sky has gone from cobalt to pool blue, and the deep rosy fingers of dawn have faded to pastel.
This is when I need the leash. Bobo is pretty directional when we’re going down the hill. I’m not so confident about him going back up. He used to want to eat the neighbor’s dog–a sweet lab mix named Molly–and he would try to get across the fence and do just that on a regular basis. But that was years ago, and Bobo is now older. In fact, he has surpassed me in dog-year equivalence. And Molly died a couple years ago (not, thank-god, because of anything Bobo did).
But old habits remain, so at the bottom of the hill, I leash him up, and we head back up to the house.
A few minutes later, we are climbing the hill. There is an occasional foray to the dock, but there are no mole rats on the dock, so the dogs soon lose interest in that real estate, and besides, they know where the treats are waiting.
A few minutes later, and we are back. The dogs have run. They’ve dug for mole rats, sniffed for passing mammals, and rolled in whose-so-ever droppings they wanted to roll in. I have either solved Wordle, or I’m waiting for the answer to bubble up from somewhere in the shadows of my consciousness, or Wordle has kicked my butt, and I am grateful just to be in living in a place where I get to watch the day start afresh every day. Morning after morning.
