The dogs so happy to be out in the fresh day. Scents everywhere. Running. Pissing. Pooping. Around the yard, through the leaves, sniffing around the small wood pile, sure that something’s there. And it likely is. Or was. Nestled into a crevice. Surrounded by dried grass, leaves, bits of paper, and strands of string. A mouse, perhaps. Maybe a chipmunk.
We get our fill after fifteen minutes. It’s fun, running around with them. Playing.
They tire of it before I do, lead me into the house for sausage treats. They lay on the kitchen floor as I grind coffee and boil water. I talk them through the process every time. They listen intently, heads tilted, ears cocked.
The morning has started well. One can never tell what’s bundled up and waiting in the next minute. Life changes so quickly. But that’s okay. I think I’ve got a handle on it now. A better grip, anyway.
Sobriety does that. Once the fog lifts and the synapses start firing, there’s quiet, moving meaning in every thing.
A black squirrel fattening up on sunflower seed. A Downy Woodpecker jackhammering the suet. Doves cooing from the neighbor’s rooftop.
It’s nice to feel stable. To wake tired, but calm. The heart rate lower. Blood pumping smoothly, steadily, as it should. Sure, there’ve been more aches and pains—joints and back and stomach—but that’s bound to happen when parts aren’t lubed in alcohol. I’ll take the slower pace.
I need to because all of this is new.