Ironic that my puppy prayer of the whole last year has betrayed me: I give thanks for having two happy healthy dogs. It’s true, they’re still happy, but they haven’t either one been healthy since the last snow, and maybe a lot longer than that. Their tough construction belies their delicate constitutions. Up til 5 a.m., with Stellar out every ten or twenty minutes, finally forcing out only clear brown liquid. I think we’ve all been there, with ourselves or our animals. Poor Stellar! Patience came as I watched him strain. I know how bad it feels. Peristalsis won’t stop, there’s nothing left, but you can’t help it. A dx of coccidia and a sulfa drug from Doc should solve it.
I could not have asked for a lovelier day in which to take no obligations. A night of no sleep, a damp garden in cool, moist air, a cloudless sunlight, no I couldn’t ask for anything more. This is my Sunday; as morning rounds don’t always happen in the morning, Sunday sometimes falls in the middle of the week. It’s been a long full week, not a quiet one, its fullness replete with joy and grief.
The song in my head is quite different when I spend enough time outside. Puttering, looking, watching, listening. I’ve watered nothing for three days, nothing since Thursday save the potted plants on Saturday, gave them a good soaking just hours before the downpour. Rocky Mountain beeplants, stunted, few and far between, are opening their fringed purple heads. Blue mist spireas are opening their delicate purple spikes.
“Who is eating my peaches?” said the woman who lived in the woods. “Someone is climbing the tree and gnawing the fruit from the bone, leaving peach pits hanging on the limbs.”