The butterfly is gone this morning. I took this picture Friday when I noticed it clinging to the stucco right by our front door. There had been wild thunderstorms all night, including a clap precisely at 4 a.m. that was so loud it sounded like a rifle shot. Riley bolted from the bedroom and quivered behind the bathroom door until dawn.
But today is gorgeous, low humidity, sun filtered through green, green leaves, mist rising from the grass. It is a slow and sleepy Saturday of late summer, and while I have my to-do list on the table in front of me, it contains things like "go to the Irish fair," and "take a bike ride" as well as "laundry," "vacuum," and "for god's sake get all my s**t off the dining room table, already."
Two friends have lost their beloved dogs this summer. Both dogs were ancient, in dog years--15. I look at Boscoe and my heart clenches a bit, but actually, Boscoe is doing fine, even with these muggy, muggy days and high temperatures--it's been near 90 every day for two weeks, with incredible dewpoints, and ever since the break-in we have kept the windows shut and locked while we're at work.
He trots along on the morning walk, slow and not terribly steady, but game and smiling. His ears flap when he walks. He looks up at Doug and gives him that crazy-old-dog grin. He no longer rolls in the grass, I suspect because he knows how damn hard it is for him to get up again, but he clearly enjoys being outside.
And now it will be big group after big group, scattered throughout September. I'm not complaining; I do hope the groups are big. But, as I said, I am trying not to think about it very much. Otherwise my heart speeds up and I feel the urge, like Riley, to flee the room and hide behind the bathroom door.
Better to think about mid-October, madness behind us, the lake beckoning. And Boscoe's beloved ears flapping in the wind.