a spring morning in bloomfield

I got off the couch at 4:51am this morning. I itched a particular spot on my scalp and opened the French doors that led to our three season porch. It was almost morning. You know. The time when it’s almost light but you wouldn’t know unless you stepped out onto a three season porch to look. I had closed the doors behind me but then, as if on accident or perhaps some instinctual desire to share a delicious moment, I re-opened those double doors to let the dog out.

I hadn’t slept at all last night and Wheaties had spent the night at the foot of the stairs, halfway between me and the others who were dozing. Was this a reward? To be let out at the ungodly hour of 5 in the morning?

But I wanted him to see this too.

It was the birds who performed a chaotic melody while he pooped in the dewy grass. It was the harmonious chorus of smells and shadowy trees.

Unsuspectingly he lifted a leg to the Rhododendron while I watched in the doorway.

Perhaps I only thought he saw what I saw. Maybe his instincts to relieve himself anytime the French doors opened were the main attraction of being let out at the unholy hour of 5 am.

He didn’t care that, for maybe one hour, we were the only ones seeing this day- this particular day.

As much as I savored the pride of being first to greet the day, I wanted someone, anyone, to affirm that this had really happened, that Katie had been up before the sun.

He disappeared into the woods or the front yard. I really didn’t care.

I defiantly left the doorway and sat on the lumpy cushion of an out-of-date lawn chair. Fine. I would enjoy everything myself, thank you very much. In fact, the more of this morning I have to myself, the less I have to share it.

I continued to lose myself in thoughts about ways to write “birds singing” without writing “birds singing” when I realized the sound of Wheaties collar suddenly wasn’t.

Really only a micron of me fretted. I knew he wasn’t far so I weakly called, “Wheaties.”

I didn’t want to break the lovely morning with my voice again; I unconvincingly said, “Wheaties.”

“Wheaties.”

“Comeer Wheaties…”

Still no jangle.

Finally I got up from the lawn chair and headed for the door. I gave maybe three whistles then waited.

The birds continued.

Three seconds later I heard the familiar, ching ching ching, of Wheaties red collar and he rounded the corner of the house.

Sometimes, I try to make him feel bad when he doesn’t respond right away. I ask, “Why didn’t you come when I called you? You turkey. You need to listen.” He’ll put his tail down and ears flat, doggie-guilt crumpling from wet-nose to tail.

But this time, I understood. I didn’t say anything.

We looked at each other and I smiled. He didn’t know that this was special. He didn’t know whether it was 5 am or 3 in the afternoon. He was just happy to be outside.

Instinctually, he sauntered to his spot in front of the French doors and stared blankly ahead.

Instead of letting him in, though, I called him to my side. He accepted a few pats on the head before resuming his spot at the door.

“Wheaties,” I cooed, “Comeer pups.”

Instead of coming right over, he started sniffing the air. He went to a window of the porch and looked out.

“It’s nice. Isn’t it?”

He sniffed again.

“You like it?”

He looked at me, dumbly. I beckoned him again and he obeyed.

This time he didn’t rush off as I lovingly stroked his soft head and lamb-y ears. I twirled his fur around my first two fingers and scratched his throat. He sat in a comfy position, resting his head against my thigh while his back leg sprawled luxuriously to the side.

I didn’t want it to end. Some moments don’t want for words. Some moments aren’t happy or sad. Some moments just are. They exist for one or thirty seconds and then leave like a glance in a crowd.

After he left my side for the second time I showed him some toys he used to play with when he was a puppy. For some reason watching him shake a stuffed skunk and then drop it when I wouldn’t join him made me feel like I had somehow failed him. Maybe he expected me to continue pulling so he could continue to play.

He sniffed the fallen toy and then left it.

At one time, he could have been happy with a toy, but now he didn’t like them as much.

He would rather go back inside and sleep. His milky eyes looked back at me as if to scold for patronizing him with such non-sense as puppy toys.

I gave-in. Wordlessly, I opened the French doors and he galloped inside.

I went back to my spot on the lumpy cushion. The birds were still going on as if nothing had changed.

But something did.

An airplane passed overhead as the sun danced on a few random leaves and the morning was no longer mine.