Home is where the doggie bed is.
Howard B. Hound
We are having a housebound afternoon; the wind is howling like a banshee. Howard makes himself comfortable in the bed he inherited from my wonderful old dog Bill. I braved the wind to pick lilac blooms, as I will be lucky if anything survives after being blown about with such force. My intention was to take a photo of the flowers, but I couldn't leave Howard out of the picture. Howard's only care in life is that food should arrive in his dish on time. This, I think would be a fine life.
It feels as if we will be swept up and taken to Oz. I wonder what I would ask the wizard for? I have a heart, courage and a brain. Perhaps I would ask for wisdom. Could I ask for worldwide wisdom? If so, I think that would be my request. I believe I could complete whatever quest I was set upon if I felt this would be the end result.
I do live in a house. I know I spend my time in a barn, in gardens and on a lawn tractor; I do indeed have walls around me that also need my infrequent attention. They need frequent attention, but it is doled out infrequently. I am not much interested in keeping a house. I think of it as a large dog house, as they make themselves at home wherever they find comfort. Gracie Greyhound, blurring the edges of acceptability. She knows she's not supposed to be there, but the consequences are not sharp enough to discourage a determined dog.
Today I have tried to set my mind to the household tasks I so dutifully ignore, but find the ignore button is so easily reached and then pushed that I get nowhere, fast. The wind howls, the house shakes and I scratch a dogs ears, stare at the swaying spruce and wonder what I will do for dinner. The piles of dog hair that swirl at my feet simply disappears from my myopic line of vision.
The house is quiet. The wind is pounding at the windows, seeking a way into the stillness of the room. Howard has moved from his bed to the stuffed chair in my office, his other bed. He is my constant companion, my good boy. It is becoming apparent to me that I will once again waste my time scratching Howie's belly, watching the wind pound the trees and telling Grace to get off the sofa. Dust will not be dusted, floors will not be swept. And I, if the truth is told, will not care.