Sleeping Dog

    The old dog sleeps. That's what he's good at--complete relaxation and sleep . . . on the porch or, on a sunny day, in a swath of the yard where he inhales the smells of the grass itself, the sharper tang of dandelions, and the airy breeze that carries the sweet perfume of fading roses from the yard next-door.

    I don't know his name or the people who live in that house, but I assume they are decent, responsible, and old, old like the sleeping dog. Young people with children don't have dogs that snore, dogs that sleep with their mouths open on a sunny day when the smells of summer are so fresh and pungent. That old dog has done his share of barking and running, playing with kids, and now it's his time, his time to rest. 

    I look for him every day on my circuit through the neighborhood because his is the story of the rhythm of us all, from bumblebees to bears, eagles to gnats, dogs and the grass they lie on, mighty oaks and tropical palms.

   It makes me happy to see the old dog, to watch the gentle rise of his chest, and to hear the puff of his snore--his presence is a welcome and an affirmation, even though I know one day he won't be there . . . just as I won't. That's right, one day I won't be here either.

    But, now, today, I smile and nod, then walk on and let the sleeping dog lie in his grassy heaven, in the green green grass of heaven, and we are both content.