it is heavy
Nuzzled barely awake by the dog before dawn, my limbs, numb from poor posture while sleeping, fail to respond to the rusty commands of my brain. The cold nose against my side causes me to roll over and groan. The dog's response to this is to whine and begin to dig at my back as he would in the garden after I've planted a Japanese eggplant.
"Mornin' Sweetpea...you got one cold nose...and remind me to clip your nails...."
"BaaaarROOOOOH!" is the response accompanied by another nudge of the arctic nose, this time to the small of my back.
I hold him by his floppy ears and press my forehead against his furry cranium. "You're such a sweet doggy dog dog, Sweetpea! Now go down and make a pot of coffee while Daddy takes a whizz."
Stumbling down the stairs I think to myself, "I don't think he understands a word I say to him." Proof is in the fact that he is following behind me by one step proudly carrying a crusty sock in his mouth. No coffee has been brewed for me.
The sky is still dark and I feel as though the air outside is colder than it should be for May. Opening a window I confirm my suspicion.
Cooking the coffee and taking a slice of Amish friendship bread I stand at the window, cold and unawake, awkwardly filling my BVDs. The cold, wet nose again, this time on my bare leg, reminds me of my sole purpose in life. "Okay, Maxy...let Daddy finish a cup of coffee first and put on some clothes and we'll go do your thing." I must be careful not to actually say "go outside" or go for a walk." He knows those words and they invariably illicit a spasmodic response.
"I love you, Max," I think out loud.
Later, my shoes tied and my sweatshirt keeping me warm, I call to Max as I gaze from a distance out the window, the morning light beginning to rally. Still several paces from the pane I say in a hush, "You want to go for a walk, Maxy?" He begins his dance around me, his nails clicking against the hardwood floor.
Max sits before me as I fasten his collar and clip on the lead. We step out onto the porch where the pre-dawn breeze is stealing moisture from the blades of grass, the smell of morning tingles on my face and tosses my hair. The dog sniffs the steps, then my pant leg, then looks up at me in expectation. The last of the stars are fading from view.
At such a time of natural magic and wonder, I would think that there would be a sense of ease, of lightness, of rightness. Instead, it is heavy. Heavier than the clouds that mask the rising sun, heavier than the dew that drips from the deep green leaves, heavier than my heart when faced with the need to let go of this enchanted time. It is heavy. The entire sense of things is heavy. The smells are saturated, the colors muted but rich, the coolness slowing down the movement of particles, making them sink and press down, gently, gently, upon my shoulders and brow.
There is a tug and I look down to see Max straining at the leash for a telephone pole to water. I allow the slack and he glances back at me before he raises his leg. Was that in appreciation? And then I wonder if he feels this weight. I doubt it. But I am sure that he senses that I feel something and that it is heavy.
