The dog who thought he was a cat

There is a little dog.
Who thought he was a cat.
He climbed up on my my shoulder.
He chewed my favorite hat.

He tried to purr, instead he squeaked.
It sounded like a bark.
He thought he’d look for mice at night.
But found he’s scared of the dark.

He’d really like to have nine lives.
Though few will get that chance.
“Hey, it’s a dog’s life boy! ” I told my pup.
“So get up, I’ll teach you to dance.”

Little Mr. Innocent

My dog Rex and I were both taking a cat nap on the couch.

Or so I believed.

Until I heard a tapping sound.

Followed by a click.

And then another one.

Uh oh, I thought.

It seems Rex shares my little grandson’s love for technology.

Though Rex’s passion runs towards an iPad instead of a computer.

Which just happens to be on the coffee table by the couch much of the time.

I’d already caught Rex dancing on my Facebook screen where he managed to mess up my keyboard last week.

Then today he discovered something really new and exciting.

Prior to napping, I’d been busy deleting pictures off the iPad as my memory was so full I couldn’t take any more.

Evidentially I was successful.

While I was still sleeping away, Rex had peeled back my iPad cover with his tiny teeth, tapped down on the big button, and managed to take himself a couple of selfies.

I caught him in the act on the third.

But I’ve got to say the boy’s got some talent worth developing.

Just like my sweet little grandson.

Death and resurrection

Morning rain on another chilly holiday was dampening my spirits some.

I awoke thinking how my family’s whittled down to just a precious few after the fairly recent deaths of my husband and mother.

So I marched myself over to the desk and self-prescribed a heavy dose of nature and one brisk walk.

Before leaving the house, I grabbed some jelly beans for fuel and packed away the family pictures and memories on my lap for another sunnier day.

I drove to a nearby area of hills and marsh land that I hadn’t explored before. As I started to walk I was struck by the vista right before me.

There stood a tree.

Or at least part of it.

Once tall and proud.

Now it was brittle.

And old.

I walked up the hill for a closer look.

The tree was dead.

I took the lens cap off the camera and took a few shots anyway.

But I wasn’t sure why.

The image haunted me.

Turning, I returned to the path below to continue my walk until the northerly winds picked up and the rain increased.

The walk wasn’t helping my mood much anyway.

And the sweet signs of spring my camera had been searching for remained hidden.

Maybe under the fresh snow received earlier in the week.

Returning back to my car, I noticed my lens cap for the camera was missing.

It’s probably up on the hill, I thought.

Over by that old dead tree.

I retraced my steps and finally found my lens cap.

But something had changed.

Or maybe it was me.

I noticed the brittle branches of the dead tree were extended. And they were reaching out to those just beyond.

Perhaps the seedlings of the dead tree once provided life to the smaller and younger ones nearby.

Death and resurrection in nature.

What a sacred gift.

Climbing back down the hill again to leave, I saw a red wing black bird fluttering.

And then a happy robin hopping.

They were my first sightings of the season.

And both birds were fully in song.

I soon was as well, once I turned on the car radio.

Handel’s “Messiah” was in concert on the public radio station.

How could I not join in with the choir?

Ham and cheese

While nibbling on the crust of a homemade cheese sandwich, I keep driving in drizzle until reaching the gravel road of the farm.

I’m on a lunch break from my job at a school and there’s no better place for me to relax and dine than in the country.

Eyeing the familiar jersey cows on the green rolling hills, I smile. The farm isn’t mine so I’ll find no chores for me to do this day.

I often walk these fields for miles, even in the rain, always leaving with a sunnier disposition.

Though today, I head straight to the barn.

Or maybe I should call it a maternity ward.

I missed the birth of the first nine piglets earlier this morning, but I’m just in time for the birth of the tenth.

I kneel with respect and amazement on beds of hay as I whisper sweet nothings into the sweet sow’s ear.

Wearily she keeps on working afterwards, feeding her tribe.

Chilled, I eventually rise to seek warmth from heat lamps comforting the baby lambs nearby. I sit down again and feel my blood pressure sink to the cement floor as I finish my cheese sandwich.

For a moment, I close my eyes.

I reflect on my lunches before retiring from a corporate job in the city six months ago.

Back then I’d walk a maze of skyways over honking, busy streets at noon. I’d then quickly grab Mexican fast food for fuel to take back to my desk so I could keep on working.

Yes, my life is quite different now.

I’ve discovered the miracle of birth is much more appealing than a bulging burrito anyday.

I open my eyes and glance down at my watch.

It’s time to leave.

Briefly I check in with the chirping baby chicks on my way out.

And then I return to Mama Pig and the piglets to wish them well.

Pushing open the heavy barn door after, I glance at the greenhouse to my left where vegetable seedlings have optimistically been planted.

I find myself feeling optimistic as well.

Quickly, I revise in my mind the tired Easter menu I was planning from a glazed ham to a fresh vegetarian quiche.

As I drive off, the sun suddenly makes a shining appearance above the hills.

And I catch myself humming, ‘oh, what a beautiful morning’ at the sight.

How can I not?