An Ever-Flowing Stream

This morning I am plotting the reassignment of Skye, the Torturous Schnauzer. She has that all-too-frequent digestive problem again. It’s been five nights in a row that she has waked us up — 1am, 3am, 5am — to let her out so she can offer some partly-digested fertilizer to selected corners of the yard.

Then, as typical, at 5:30 on this Saturday morning she begins defcon barking at the cat outside her gate lying peacefully on the neighbor’s driveway. After stuffing her back into her crate, I return to bed, too angry to sleep, plotting how to sell her. No, how to give her away. But then integrity would compel me to tell any potential new caretaker about her significant defects. So, I began planning a way to bribe someone to take her. Maybe her vet, whom we pay with alarming frequency to probe and speak sweetly to her, can think of a more patient home for her to live in. Maybe one inhabited by insomniacs.

So I give up sleeping in on this Saturday, which by the way is my birthday, and get up mad as hell. Only to find the Canine Catastrophe snoozing peacefully in her bed, so I drag her outside. I don’t sleep; she doesn’t sleep.

Blissfully conforming to her punishment, Skye wanders across the yard, licking dew from the grass and sniffing the morning. A grackle comes to the bird feeder that I filled yesterday; then flits to the yard to poke around for something helpful. As if on cue, Skye lopes around the corner to playfully chase the bird away. I find myself smiling at her, this Dastardly Dog whose existence curses mine. Because she’s just being a dog: playing the ancient game of watching, tracking, warning, chasing.

Then I notice the red oak. It’s not new; I planted the tree more than 20 years ago. But I just hadn’t seen it yet this morning: about 30 feet tall, which is quite an accomplishment in our arid landscape. I’ve done almost nothing for it — some water, some insect drench — and there it is, playing its ancient game of turning sunbeams to sugar, exchanging carbon for oxygen, giving shelter for birds, food for squirrels, and shade for any visitor to the patio on a hot afternoon.

Unexpectedly delighted by the tree, I notice how green the yard is, the nine colors of flowers in clay pots, the house finch shoveling sunflower seeds into its beak, and the Schnauzer who has come near, sensing that I’m out of sorts and needing someone playful to offer me a ball and patiently sit by me, leaning gently against my foot.

And just like that, all is forgiven. Skye hasn’t exactly climbed back to the status of Wonder Schnauzer, but she’ll do.

Then a morning shower starts to gently fall. The earth and everything within her (including canines) has unexpectedly become gift again, inviting me to let it all be and join in the play of beholding the wonder of everything.