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One Hour

One Hour

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Today, thanks to our springtime sacrifice, we receive an extra hour — the gift of time. It’s still early enough in the day that I can contemplate how to spend it:

Sixty more minutes to read the Sunday paper? Two walks today instead of one? An extra-long phone call with friend or family? Cleaning the fridge? Snapping photos of autumn gold? Reading and writing? Putting the garden to bed? Making beef stew? Practicing “Sheep May Safely Graze” on the piano?

Or, how the day is starting to shape up: Letting the dog out, letting the dog in; letting the dog out, letting the dog in.

Has a certain mantraesque quality to it, no?

Back to Barriers

Back to Barriers

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I write today, as I often do, with Copper curled beside me. Like many dogs, he likes to lie with his back against a barrier. The barrier might be a couch cushion, a bookcase, a cool metal filing cabinet or, in this case, my lap.

There is probably an entire literature on canine sleeping habits, the desire for warmth and closeness bred in pack animals. But from where I sit, it’s simple: I have his back. There is something solid behind him. He will not drop off into the void.

In this context, then, having one’s back against the wall does not mean a lack of choices, a last stand. It means backing, support and protection.

I think about my family, house and neighborhood — the bulwarks I’ve built, the people and places that stand behind me; the people and places I stand behind, too. They are my guard rails, my talisman, my way to fill the void.

Transfixed

Transfixed

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This year our garden is more colorful than it’s been in years. (See deer repellent, mentioned earlier this week.) And for that reason it is bliss now to step out on our deck, to hear the first birds of morning and to witness the dusky dark give way to light.

Listen hard enough, I tell myself, and you will hear the great engine that is day whir into business again. It will be sleep deprived, of course, because it was up last night until after nine. But it will happen, is happening even now as I write. Our little dog stands sentinel; even he, I think, is sometimes transfixed by beauty, or maybe it is pure animal peace that makes him pause and lift his head. A sense that all is right with the world.

Deer Proof?

Deer Proof?

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Though we reside in the suburbs, it sometimes seems as if we’re forging a future on the frontier, at least when it comes to outsmarting the critters that live here with us. Owls shriek in the woods, fox wake us with their eerie cries and — most important this time of year — deer forage in our suburban gardens. If they were just snacking on a few oak leaves we wouldn’t mind, but they go for the tenderest and most long-awaited plants. The hostas with their tall lavender shoots, the impatiens, the day lilies.

Last year they ate the buds off the lilies before they could bloom. This year we’ve had a secret, smelly weapon — a deer repellent spray, a “liquid fence” that keeps them away — and a few victories — a riotous crop of tiger lilies in the backyard and winsome clusters of impatiens by the front door.

But we’re not resting on our, er, laurels. We’ve spotted the herds of deer moving through the woods, nibbling everything they can find. We know it’s only a matter of time before they grow hungry enough and bold enough to strike again.

Lost Dog

Lost Dog

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Yesterday, when I was on a woods walk, an unleashed shelty ran by me. I’ve seen this dog before and thought he might be allowed to run along the paths unsupervised. But when I saw him 20 minutes later trotting down the main street of our neighborhood, I knew I had an escapee on my hands. The little guy wouldn’t let me close enough to read his tags, so I followed him until he darted into a house at the end of a cul-de-sac. He was safely home.

What impressed me about this dog was his self-possession. He seemed to know where he was going. He was never lost. He was just out exploring. He was the perfect illustration of what self-defense experts tell us: Always act like you know where you’re going, even when you don’t.

Good Boy

Good Boy

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This morning our dog, Copper, was especially rambunctious. We don’t know what got into him exactly, but he came inside after his morning romp and skittered all over the living room and kitchen. He chased his tail. He ran loops in our house. He looked for all the world like a canine comedian, milking us for every laugh he could.

I let him back into the yard where he ran big loops with a red ball in his mouth. More laughs. It’s impossible to watch that little guy rocket across a space, his long, low body (one of our friends says he seems to be put together out of spare, mismatched dog parts) blurred by motion. He’s the life force itself. The very essence of joy.

When he’s done he runs up to us with a funny grin on his face, as if to say, aren’t you proud of me.

And at that moment I forget about the loud barking, the accidents on the carpet, the ruined back door, the times he’s run away and left us with our heart in our throats. I reach down and pat the little guy.

“Good boy,” I say. “Good boy, Copper.”

The Company of Animals

The Company of Animals

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On days I work at home I spend quiet time with Copper and Hermes. They’re with me now on the (rapidly warming) deck. If I need to stretch, I’ll throw the ball with Copper or take him on a walk (a word which cannot be said unless immediate action is intended). I turn to Hermes for mental stimulation. He talks, after all, though his vocabulary is limited. He is also good for comic relief, especially when he sneezes at the wild birds to get their attention. They must wonder what kind of creature lives in a cage and says “I love you.”

The company of animals on a busy Monday morning. They keep me humble; they keep me sane.

Brief Encounter

Brief Encounter

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Summer mornings are kind to the suburban walker. They are cool and quiet and they arrive a few minutes after 5. This morning I was out before the sun, and at the end of our neighborhood I saw three deer. They were young and thin, their faces impossibly narrow. I’ll admit: They look much cuter bounding through the woods than they do up close. For a minute all three of them froze, a self-protective device, I imagine. But then two of them ran back into the brush. Only one — the brazen one? the curious one? — stayed where she was. She looked me up one side and down the other. She took my measure, and I took hers. I think she could tell I meant her no harm. I was just another fellow creature taking the morning air.

Devil May Care

Devil May Care

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It’s the first Saturday in May, a day to drink mint juleps, sing “My Old Kentucky Home” and watch the horses run. Strong storms are predicted for Churchill Downs, which means that Devil May Care, a filly whose owner my parents met last weekend, will have to run well in the mud to win the 136th Kentucky Derby. I hope she does, because of the faint connection, because she’s a girl and because I like her name. (This is the, ahem, highly scientific method by which I usually choose a horse.)

Devil May Care makes me think about going for broke. It’s the rakish tilt of a fedora, a whiff of cigarette smoke, the swirl of bourbon in a highball glass. In a world of highly regulated outcomes, chance draws us like a magnet. Who wants to know how every race will end? Who doesn’t long for surprise? When the track is muddy, it’s more likely that you’ll see a most improbable horse, a long shot, perhaps a filly, streaking along the rail or swinging wide on the outside. The cheers will be deafening, the mud will be flying and a horse, a horse whose name we don’t yet know, will be running her heart out, racing for the finish line.