At age Seventy- five, my routine is generally quiet, my closest companion, a Wire Haired Dachshund named Kobi, with whom I walk every day, weather permitting. Even in the dead of winter, you’ll find us up at the bike path, a three mile round trip of rolling pavement, surrounded by mountains and woods. For me, the combination of pup and Nature is truly life giving as it takes me out of myself, opens my heart and mind to the ever unfolding truth of what is really important.
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Right now, it’s quiet up there, but stuff is happening. That’s when my friend, Chris, comes in handy. While Kobi and I are just doing our thing, Chris is on and off the path, scurrying around in the woods and eager to share what he discovers. Because he uses the Latin names for everything, I don’t have the faintest idea of what he is talking about. But you don’t have to know the name of something to appreciate its wonders.
Right now, the most delightful part of the walk for me is a patch of Milkweed. Who would expect those blah brownish gray pods on stalks to burst open and reveal the softest silkiest white stuff you’ve ever held? Just for fun (and because I found it irresistible), I had pulled a bit out to be sure I remembered how soft it was—like angel hair—when this guy comes along with his dog and I told him to hold out his hand close his eyes. It was such fun to see his expression when he felt the little gift from Nature I placed there. Even more remarkable was that this stranger followed the directions of a not-so-sweet little old lady in the first place!
In a few weeks, after they are empty, I’ll tote a bunch of empty pods and other so-called weeds back to the car to be spray painted silver for the holidays. I’d rather decorate with Nature than with anything store bought.
Just a little way down from the milkweed patch, there’ s a hillside where Kobi and I watched a summer bus load of kids rolling (miraculously not over one another) down that hill. Their shrieks of delight were a gift that brought memories of days of equally uninhibited joy.
On the way back I recall the tiniest little bright yellow bird (maybe a finch?) which darted along with us for a few weeks, making quite the fuss as it flitted and chirped away. It pleased me to think it simply enjoyed our company. But then I realized it was more likely distracting us from a nest of babies. I sure hope the family has settled into a warmer environment than what is on its way here. Maybe there’ll be more than one sweet yellow birdie next year.
Last week I was startled to see a middle aged woman pushing a twin stroller with one side occupied by a small dog. Just behind them was a gentleman with the doggie’s twin on a leash, furiously wagging its tail at Kobi. When I asked if puppy would like to play for a minute, I was told, No, because puppy was too young to play. And how old was puppy? Only seven months.
Pause… or Paws. A seven month old puppy is too YOUNG to play? I get the parenting bit—Kobi calls me Mommy—but a dog needs to be allowed to be a dog, for chrisakes!
I read recently that while people take walks, dogs have adventures. Now that’s the spirit and a fine reminder of how to live.
Kitchen Table Kibitzing is a community series for those who wish to share part of the evening around a virtual kitchen table with kossacks who are caring and supportive of one another. So bring your stories, jokes, photos, funny pics, music, and interesting videos, as well as links—including quotations—to diaries, news stories, and books that you think this community would appreciate. Readers may notice that most who post diaries and comments in this series already know one another to some degree, but newcomers should not feel excluded. We welcome guests at our kitchen table, and hope to make some new friends as well.