On the home front, we're babying Ophelia, our sick old Labby girl, giving her all kinds of treats: scrambled eggs for breakfast, spaghetti Bolognese--hold the spaghetti--for dinner.
Since I've got a revision deadline approaching, I dragged the dog beds out to the deck and spent much of the day writing out there with Feefee and her old buddy Reuben. And now that night has fallen, we're on the porch, camped out by the screen windows, listening to the crickets.
As days go, it's been a pretty good one--if not dog heaven, as close as we could manage, given everything. Thanks to my friend Barbara Crooker for writing this poem on the subject of dog heaven, and for sharing it with me:
If “Heaven is a lovely lake of beer,” as St. Bridget wrote,
then dog heaven must be this tub of kibble, where you can push
your muzzle all day long without getting bloat or bellyache.
Where every toilet seat is raised, at the right level
for slurping, and fire hydrants and saplings tell you, “Here.
Relieve yourself on us.” And the sun and moon
fall at your feet, celestial frisbees flinging themselves
in shining arcs for your soft mouth to retrieve. Rumi says,
“Personality is a small dog trying to get the soul to play,”
but you are a big dog, with an even larger heart, and you
have redeemed our better selves. Forgive us for the times
we walking away, wanted to do taxes or wash dishes
instead of playing fetch or tugger. In the green field
of heaven, there are no collars, no leashes, no delivery trucks
with bad brakes, and all the dogs run free. Barking is allowed,
and every pocket holds a treat. Sit. Stay. Good dog.