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Michael considered fate at 15:19   |   Permalink   |   Post a Comment

Satchel just wants a lawn.

I was sitting today in my living room in my underwear watching the seagulls glide around on the morning breeze. It was overcast and grey but you could still see a good distance and the hill leading down to the ocean was a khaki brown. The grass hasn't quite figured out this whole spring thing yet. We're only 8 days in so I'll give it a little bit.. but I'm desperate for the daylight savings switch. Desperate for a little sunlight in the evening and 40s on the stoop and cigars on the porch roof. These are a few of my favourite things.

As I looked out through the crooked and knarled branches of the front lawn's tree I could see far off a little man walking across the field. He was coming from the west and heading out towards the point in a easterly direction. He wore a bright red overcoat and a tan cap and walked with a little slouch. I first saw him out of the corner of my eye as he came out from behind the congress monument and made his way along the paved walkway that cuts across the bluff. He walked at a pretty good clip with his head up and his hands stuffed in his pockets.

After he had made his way about 30 yards he stopped and turned around. He paused there and then, as a small black form on all fours came waddling out from behind the monument too, he continued on his way. I watched the little black form, seemingly the size of a full grown cat, as it waddled along. It didn't gallop but it didn't walk either. It sort of trotted in a gimply way - not as if wounded but rather as if this creature was just not made for the trot. I could picture it bounding ahead, front feet landing in the grass with hind up and in the air - hind feet landing and springing forth bringing the front end up like a motorcycle wheelie. I could picture it walking slowly, sniffing everything and looking around. I could not, however, picture it trotting. Even though it was happening in front of my very eyes.

The small black thing moved along, always keeping a 30 yard distance between it and the man. He stopped a few times to look around and the (lets call it a dog from now on) black dog would pick up it's pace just the slightest to show that, yes, he really was trying. Then the man would turn and continue on his way.

When the dog reached the bench in the center of the hill he stopped and sniffed and wandered off the path into the brown grass and stopped to do his duty. He was quick about it, turning once at the end to inspect his contribution, and then standing proudly with nose up, chest out, kicking dirt at his pile. By now the man was a good distance away and the small black dog sprung into a gallop to catch up.

As the two forms slowly disappeared over the other side of the hill the sun poked out from the top of the clouds and a golden light covered the tired brown field.

Then I scratched my ass and went to work.