Were I a skilled artist, I would paint a canvas using vivid oranges, reds, yellows, and rich greens, browns, and purples. I cannot begin to understand why I wax poetic once September makes an appearance, but suddenly the nights become cool so that Grandma must close the windows and doors, the mornings require sweatshirts, the sun’s rays reach the earth in a way that pleases both humans and animals, a dry, crisp breeze blows steadily, redolent with the scent of smoke and dying leaves.
For a pug it is the time of most intense and exquisite pleasure. I awaken with a new vigor, greet the day with wild abandon, enjoy my breakfast of squash and kibbles with a long missed passion, and am ready to embrace the ground upon which I walk with gratitude and joy. To take a large marrowbone outside at this time of year is to lose oneself completely in the simple task of emptying its treasures.
On one such day I lost time and myself. Grandma, for the first time ever, had to come and carry me in for supper. After dinner I demanded to be let back out so I could again pursue my soothing activity. I suspect Grandma forgot about me because she didn’t come for me until bedtime. A beautiful new moon had risen, the owls had started hooting, the grass was wet with dew, and yet I remained stretched out on the grass savoring the juices of my effort.
While I was reluctant to leave my spot, the night air was making me unusually sleepy. These nights bring the deepest most satisfying sleep and some mornings I now must be awakened for breakfast. Some of you will ask yourselves why an old curmudgeon of a pug would write such a sensitive blog today, and I must confess that I don’t really have a clue. Maybe I feel sentimental because my time on Cape Cod is drawing to a close, the weather is changing, or I know winter cannot be far behind. Any one of or all of these reasons will suffice. I am a multi-faceted pug who likes to savor the bounties of Mother Nature.
Tonight my mom and dad arrive for the long weekend and we’ve so much planned for their visit. Happy Labor Day, dear reader!
P.S. In case you think I’ve lost my edge, Lizzie is still a fool.