Clara barked a brief, light-toned appeal from the front hall the other day, the door that she has never passed through because her electric boundary forbids it. However, she knows all about passive solar heat, and she also loves the expansive neighborhood view, where she barks the authoritative tones that assure intruders of her prowess. Ever since the screen was replaced by the winter storm glass, she lingers longingly by the wooden front door on sunny days until I open it, flooding the hall with light and warmth. It’s like doggie television, with a blanket.
Kate, with her weakened hips, has had trouble on our entry stairs for weeks now. A layer of ice has made the steps even more treacherous. We’ve seen her splayed helplessly after a fall, a painful scene for everyone. She lingers at the top of the steps, bracing herself, glancing at me woefully. I finally figured out that if I loop a towel under her belly, I can support her descent. Now she waits for me patiently (is that relief in her eyes?), until I remember the towel.
These dogs have me well trained, even if I am a slow learner.
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 74: 196 words, TOTAL = 12,324; 47,676 remaining
Robin Clifford Wood is an award-winning author, poet, and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her children, grandchildren, and granddogs.