this time of year, with new grass and dewy mornings, is boscoe's favorite time to graze.
oh, he's always up for a little munch of grass, any time of year; he's not picky. the tall wide spikes that grow fat and unmolested over by the railroad tracks, the well-trod tougher grass in the park, the dried blades poking through the dead leaves in november--they all have their flavors. he'll sample them all.
but grass this time of year--from early spring to mid-june or so--is special. this is sweetgrass time. tender shoots of bright green, not yet fried by the sun or dried out by drought.
on these morning walks, boscoe slows down, grazes a bit, stops to sniff. every couple of blocks, he indulges in a full-body roll in the soft grass. we wait. we watch. we let him roll.
the cardinals and robins are singing away in the budding trees, the apple blossoms have finally burst open, the lilacs are just starting to give off their heady scent. the mist rises from the lake after a chilly night and the fog burns off as we go. by the end of the walk the sun is fully up and we've unzipped our jackets.
there's no reason to hurry. this morning, bluebirds swooped overhead and red-winged blackbirds called from the cattails. three park workers on those big red mowing machines that so aggravate riley trimmed the grass over by the statue of schiller. the smell of new-cut sweet grass was so fresh and green that i was tempted to try a mouthful myself.
the dogs dawdled. we dawdled with them.
34 minutes ago