When it starts cookin’ here in the Pacific Northwest at 77 degrees, I get a soft spot for our dog.
The one in a life-long hairy coat.
The one who walks and sheds. Shakes and sheds. Pants and sheds.
The one who flops in a pile of rocks by the side of the house and hopes for more 59 degree days. Like yesterday.
At which time I wink in his direction and trot off to fill a plastic container with water and a few pieces of last night’s barbecued chicken thighs.
And then freeze the thing over night.
By the time the sun starts to tease us, it’s ready.
And for twenty minutes I soar to number One in his small book. Or actually that chunk of ice does. And that whiff of chicken.
And that’s okay.