Return from Morning Walk

The front porch storm door is open, held that way by its sliding clasp. With the heavy entry door pushed in, I can see through to the living room and the kitchen beyond that, even from here on the sidewalk. That furthest room will be filled with the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee, intermingling not unpleasantly with the unique savory scent of dried kibble which surely now fills a bowl on the counter. Max and I look at each other, he up and I down, with shared anticipation. 

We bound up the ten steep steps to where the house sits on the hill, where concrete stairs give way to wooden ones, and press on. The old wood creaks under our feet, but Max doesn’t seem to mind. Bending down to one knee, I pat the soft and sun-warmed fur behind his ears as my other hand undoes the plastic clip of his collar, freeing him from the oppression of his leash. Still, he sits. He waits. He looks at me for a long time, waiting for the signal. Looking down and returning the gaze cast by those kind, milk-chocolatey eyes, I hope he knows the joy he brings. I hope he knows I love him. His tail thumps rhythmically against the floorboards, confirming that he does.

I shoot him a wink. 

“Okay!” I say.

He is off, able now to control himself about as much as a bullet is able to control itself after the hammer drops. I hear soft padding switch to staccato clacking as he moves from carpet to tile, bringing a smile to my face that grows even greater with the expected clatter when the brakes fail to engage fully and he enters a great sliding drift culminating in what can only be a crash into the undersink cupboards.

From the kitchen, lilting tones punctuate the excitement: “Good morning, my darling!”

I turn around and sit on the porch swing heavily, starting it into a sway. Out there, the scene of a street coming to life: other six-legged pairs make their rounds, occasional cars hum by, storm doors like this one open and close, and old porches like this one creak and groan. The bright morning sun shines its rays through full and swaying trees, throwing shadow art across the road, the sidewalk, my face.

The shifting light provides warmth and shade at just the right intervals. A chorus of bluebirds and cardinals and mourning doves and phoebes chime out the soundtrack. The nearby magnolia tree has partnered with a lilac bush across the street to provide a just-right perfume. There will be worry and busy-ness and responsibility to come today, like most every day, but those things are nowhere to be found now. Now there is just an easy peace.

I hear you before I see you, the carpet sighing with each step you take coming through the living room behind me. And behind that, the familiar muffled patter of paws following you expectantly. I turn to see you come out onto the porch as the light breaks the canopy and you smile at me and I am in love. You set the big bowl filled with kibble on the porch next to the swing, you wish me a good morning which I wish right back, you kiss me and then you turn and are gone. Max sits next to his breakfast, moving his neck in sharp, repeating jerks - looking at you, at his food, at you, at his food, and so on. 

Just as I begin to think he will crack and begin the ravenous chomping of a dog starved for a fortnight but who actually has only gone without for half a day, you return through the front door. A pastel clay mug in each hand, steamy wisps flowing upwards from both, you come and sit and set them in front of us. The nutty and almost spicy smell of the coffee joins the scents of blooming spring and it is intoxicating. We swing in silence and take in the still-waking-up world around us. It is lovely and right.

Peace is broken by the rumble and wheeze of kibble being half scooped, half vacuumed into Max’s eager maw - the pack family is all together so it is safe enough to chow down with reckless abandon.

“It’s a beautiful day,” you say as we swing back and forth and the birds chirp their concurrences. “Busy day or will you get any chances to go out and enjoy it?”

“A day stacked with meetings,” I respond, “I’ll be lucky to even get out on my lunch break.”

“Same,” you say.

We swing for a while longer in silence, save for the occasional slurp of coffee now cool enough to sample. I quite like my job normally, but given the morning, I sit and contemplate my upcoming day in the office the way a just-sentenced prisoner must contemplate the cell. 

You let on that you must be going down a similar line of melodramatic thought and say, “Feeling a bit sick?”

“I’m fine,” I say. “Better than fine, I’m happy.” I’ve always been slow to catch on.

“Oh,” you say dejectedly. “I could have sworn you just sounded a bit raspy… And I’m afraid I might be coming down with a fever.” You put the back of your hand to your head and flutter your hazel eyes back into your head, slumping in the still-moving swing.

Finally taking the hint, I hack out a few good coughs into the crook of my elbow. Max raises his head slowly from his gluttony-induced slumber to see what the fuss is about.

 “You know what? I think you’re right. In fact, I’m not sure I’ll be able to make it into the office after all.”

“Ah me neither… well I guess we better let them know,” you say.

We swing in silence for another minute or two, the sound of coffee sips replaced with the dull taps of Out Sick Today subject lines and main body messages carefully worded so as not to betray the conspiracy.

“Both sick. Well, that’s a real shame,” I say as I hear your final tap, one that could only be for Send based on the heavy touch and the ensuing smile that creeps up the corners of your mouth.

I extend my legs to the railing while you curl yours beneath you. Cupping our mugs, sitting in sunshine, enjoying our company. We are warmed and we swing, so unfortunately sick today.