Furry troll with curious eyes
watched as dinner his table imposed.
“The password, please, else meet your demise.”
Troll drooled and lifted his nose.
Ominous threats no one believes,
beautiful puppy mine.
The password, please, you silly tease.
On table scraps you shall dine.
From where did you come,
and where did you go
before you came here to me?
What happened to make you fear
crates and loud noises and the prospect of
being left alone?
Who put you in a cell
with bars and bare cement floors
and people parading by to stare?
How did you choose me
to be the one you would enchant
with your soulful chocolate eyes?
When will I have done enough to thank you
for the privilege of walking this path
with you?
I can imagine answers to my questions,
but I will never truly know.
Of course, some questions have no answers,
and that’s okay. What matters is that
you are the answer to me, and
I am the answer to you.
For Emily and Bella
Chules is sick today. I can hear his tummy roiling from across the room. He’s been in- and outside at least a dozen times since morning. When I let him out, he beelines to the side yard fence, and tries to eat the taller grass to ease his stomach pain. Not an easy task for a canine whose teeth are not suited to grazing on plants.
Back inside, Chules disappears into my bedroom to rest in solitude. He likes alone time, even when he’s feeling well. After a couple of hours I go looking for him, and find him on the bed, resting his head on my pillow. This is atypical of him; he usually naps on the floor behind my rocking chair. I sit with him and gently pull my fingers through his soft fur. He doesn’t move, but his watery eyes close drowsily. I kiss his head and leave to let him sleep.
In the living room, I retire to the couch with a mystery book I’ve been reading. I like my alone time, too, but today I can’t relax. Soon I hear Chules padding down the hallway. He hops up on the couch and curls up next to me. I pat his backside and return to my book, feeling more at ease now. Sometimes, it’s just better to spend alone time together.
stunted winter grass
green, though growth eludes the eye
grazers are not fooled
Yesterday was Groundhogs Day in the US and Canada, and megastar (among the rodent crowd) groundhog Punxsutawney Phil purportedly did not see his shadow, which is said to be a harbinger of an early spring this year.
While not the most reliable diagnostic tool of the atmospheric sciences (the groundhog has about a 39% accuracy rate), it is nonetheless a quaint tradition from simpler (climatically speaking) times.
A bit lesser known in the US – okay, a LOT lesser known – observance on February 2nd is World Wetlands Day, a day designated to bring awareness to the importance of wetlands in balancing global ecosystems.
The house where I lived as a youth was situated on a sand hill that was basically surrounded by wetlands (back then designated simply as a swamp). The first signs of spring for me were the green shoots of skunk cabbage that emerged from the murky waters of the swamp. These quickly grew into wide, flat, shiny leaves and bright yellow flowers that emitted the musky odor of their namesake. I loved the cheery sight of them, and I actually found the earthy, slightly sweet smell to be somewhat pleasant (in small doses and from a distance).
The sounds of croaking frogs were prevalent on warm evenings, and every once in a while a beaver or nutria would find their way into our lower yard. Mosquitoes abounded. We pretty much stayed out of the swamp and let it do its thing of living and dying, sprouting and rotting, flooding and receding. I thought it was kind of cool to live within the wetland, but I had no appreciation of its importance as an ecosystem.
The last time I visited that area, I found that the swamp had been filled in and houses lined both sides of the low road that used to define where our yard ended and the swamp waters began. It was a sad sight. The adage “You never know what you have until it’s gone” comes to mind.
It’s too late for “my” swamp, but other wetlands can be restored, preserved and protected. Let’s do it!
Infographic taken from WorldWetlandsDay.org
The clock shows six a.m. Maybe. My eyes don’t quite focus first thing in the morning. My dog Chules has awakened me with his gentle “woof” from halfway down the hall. I don’t know how he expects me to hear such soft greetings, but I do hear them, almost every time. I rise and make my way down the hall to the front door where Chules now waits. “What kind of day do you suppose it is today?” I ask. Chules answers as usual with a generous tail wag and an expectant smile. He doesn’t prejudge days. He’s very Zen about that kind of thing.
I prop the door open with my Himalayan salt crystal. The lamp inside broke some time ago, but it’s quite heavy and makes a perfect door stop, so there it sits. Chules steps out to the porch and plops down on the cool cement. The lyrics from a Dan Fogelberg song enter my head.
Yes it’s going to be a day // There is really no way to say no // To the morning.
Chules’ eyes meet mine. Does he hear the song, too? In my imagination, I hear us both saying, “Yes.” A most hearty yes to the morning.
morning stirs awake
day unfolds to greet the sun
petals of summer
Snap! smacks the mouse trap,
as the spring is spryly sprung.
The trap slaps shut with a jolt abrupt.
Now the deadly deed is done.
Wheeze! breathes the brave mouse,
as she gasps to grasp some air.
That’s how it goes when the cheese she chose
is a ploy plied to ensnare.
Voilà! exclaims the vainglorious vole.
“You disdained and disbelieved
that a twig tip-tapped could trip the trap.
Such a clean scheme I conceived.”
Shush! shouts the shaking mouse.
“It was I who death defied.
Put a plug in your pompous prattling
while we partake of our purloined prize.”
It is 10 PM. My dog Chules stares up at me from the floor, where he has been sleeping most of the evening. He wants to catch my eye so I will realize it is bedtime. I’m not sure how he distinguishes between his many naps and bedtime, nor do I understand why he feels responsible for getting me to turn in at this particular hour. Nonetheless, bedtime it is.
As per ritual, I open the front door so he can go outside and relieve himself one last time. Not wanting to draw moths to the light inside, I step out onto the porch, close the door, and wait in the dark for Chules to finish his business. Sometimes he gets right to it, sometimes he goes off on a final check of the yard’s perimeter. On warm nights like tonight, he is just as apt to sit on the lawn and gaze at the stars. I join him in sitting and gazing, though I’m certain our ruminations run on very different tracks.
it is quiet tonight except for the chirping of crickets. I don’t recall having heard them for quite some time, and I find comfort in the familiarity of nature’s music. So much of it has gone missing. After a time, I stand and Chules comes trotting back to the porch. We go inside and — having settled my mind and his kidneys — we retire to our beds in peace.
crickets serenade
on dark, warm nights I eavesdrop
songs not meant for me
What Rhymes with Stanza? 