17. creature comfort

It’s not that I ever particularly want to exchange the warmth of bed for the shock of 7° at 7am, but here is this furry creature breathing in my sleepy face, begging me to do the one small thing that will make her day, frantically following me from bedroom to bathroom to back door, hopping in small circles as I pull on my boots, her tail beating small puffs of dust as she sits for me to clip on her leash. I have much to learn from this floppy-eared, four-legged being—she knows the power of nature first thing in the morning, needs no caffeine to be invigorated. She has taught me how to weather any kind of weather, and if it weren’t for her I wouldn’t know the stillness of a sleepy neighborhood, the acrid chimney smoke from the house down on California, the plump pumpkins still clinging to their vines, the lone bird call, the gardens bedded down for winter, the quiver of a rabbit’s nose before she realizes a threat is near, the three lone snowballs of a deconstructed snowman, the quiet shift in seasons. Indigo, why don’t you ever bug your father to take you out, I sometimes complain, but she and I both know that this is our gift to each other.

(Oct. 30)