Quiet dog

We have a dog. I walk the dog. There. There's the setup. Across the street is a soggy slab of mossy grass—weeds mostly—slanting up or down into old-growth thatch. The dog, Happy, gets the news and weather from nosing across its length and breadth, and a bit of exercise hauling me, his human behind. I suspect he picks his deposits randomly so as not to give out any doggy secrets. Today's favorite stump is tomorrow's cast-behind. Lately it has been a miserable and muddy mess. I wear mowing shoes. Who cares what you step in. I catch myself whistling or humming whatever tunes the inner radio desires. At night, off in the distant, there are lights. Beneath them, men and women work shifts at a paper mill. I count off the hours sometimes, “Happy, they have three hours to go.” It has been over twenty years since I worked shifts, but you don't forget the weight of those hours. Happy stops. I stop and count my blessings. At night it is very quiet. Most of the houses around are dark, though a few lights here and there tell of hours still winding down and putting the day to bed. I try and turn off the radio and just be the quiet. To feel the wind and hear the slight night sounds and the whuffle of the dog and just be.