Like furry gargoyles, our two cats, Giese and Pudgy, perch on the headboard of our bed and wait for their breakfast. If I sleep too long into the morning haze, they begin a choreographed plot of accidental pillow dives near my head. After the third or fourth “whoomp” of cat cannon-balling, I am forced to wake officially up. They always act innocent, but I swear I see them high-fiving each other in the hallway.
My husband has left for work, and the house feels his absence. Itâ€™s quiet, calm, and holding its breath until his return. Me too.
After I dress for the mild weather Minnesota is experiencing at the moment, I hook up our dog, Booker, to the leash. He prances and â€œwoofsâ€ in anticipation of our walk, and I do my best to get my gloves on before he yanks me out of the garage. Itâ€™s amazing how quickly 90 pounds of dog gets you going.
I inhale deeply and cast my eyes to the sky. For some reason that action causes me to say a silent prayer of gratitude. â€œThank you for this day, and for this beautiful world.â€
Booker heads off into the ditch to sniff a particularly ominous blob of snow. This stimulates his bladder and he pees on the snow in what can only be described as a yoga pose. Â “Leaky Downward Dog.”
While he’s doing that, I notice the glitter Mother Nature has spray-painted over the grass and remaining dried blossom heads. I marvel at an artistry beyond my wildest ability.