July 1, 2010. Thursday.
Situation: Damn it. Part of my morning routine is to turn on the computer first thing so after I’m done with my walk with Mway it’s finished going through its grinding. But this morning I forgot to click one of the opening icons and now I must sit here and listen to the computer still go through its opening procedures. But at least I think I can use the word processing program – and, there, it sounds to me like the grinding is coming to a halt. This morning, having gotten more detailed instructions from Moi, I better prepared Squeak’s food, nuking it in the wooden dish, her preferred dish, rather than the plastic one, which I used instead as a cover, then breaking up the food with a fork. I let Mway out the door before I’m ready to go out; I pour water for the coffee; then I go outside, let the chickens out and throw out some feed for them. Mway and I are on the path by 8:15.
State of the Path: It’s a cool morning; the air feels real refreshing. Nevertheless, I feel tired. Last night at work when I sat down to do my job, I suddenly realized how tired I felt. People told me I did my job just as well, if not better, than I usually do, and I was able to put passion into it, but in the back of my mind lingered a feeling of irritability which I was unable to dispel the whole night and which undoubtedly adversely affected my job performance. Yesterday afternoon before going to work I took Mway for another walk down to the creek and then I even went into the pool to swim my circle laps – with an early morning walk, it was probably all too much to do. Neither the day lilies nor the fleabane have opened up yet. I take the side path by the orchard, which I hadn’t done at all yesterday. A briar and a grapevine, in one day, have grown across the path; I don’t bother to knock them down – perhaps with all the dry weather, I’m starting to feel sorry for the plants. Nevertheless, through the goldenrod, I step with my foot turned sideways, to act as a wedge to stamp down whatever goldenrod I can. The weed’s hold onto the soil doesn’t seem as great as it once was, and it seems like I’m able to trample some of it down pretty well. Down by the creek, after tripping over the loopy grapevine as I do almost every time (the vine is hidden by some of those plants I talked about yesterday and can’t identify), I run into an especially prickly thistle – this, if it is a thistle (and since it’s not flowering I can’t for certain tell), may be a bull thistle. Moi calls all the thistles Canadian bull thistles; but Audubon makes a distinction between Canada thistle and bull thistle: both are spiny, but the bull thistle is “our spiniest thistle.” I take the side path along the skating pond too. I notice that there are catty-nine-tails (Audubon calls them common cattails) in the pond, and this amazes me, because I can’t imagine there’s any water in the pond to sustain these plants. I think about going over to investigate things further, but between the path and the crest of the pond lies a bunch of goldenrod, and I just can’t stand the thought of walking through more of this stuff.
State of the Creek: To my surprise, Mway doesn’t head into the creek at her usual spot, but simply turns right onto the path; I think maybe she’s deliberately trying to avoid any contact with the raccoons. On our way along the creek, we both prick our ears at something suddenly crashing through the weeds on the other side. This sounds again to me like a deer, but neither of us see anything. I see that the pool under the black walnut tree is starting to disappear; the same is true of one of the pools along the crest of the skating pond. Tomorrow or the next day, both of these pools might be gone.
The Fetch: Up at the clearing, Mway is a ball of energy, going after the “pro-quality” stick more times, really, than I care to throw it – again, my muscles, particularly my thigh muscles, feel sore (too many frog kicks in the swimming pool, I believe), and it’s unpleasant for me to bend down to pick up the stick. At one point, after Mway drops the stick at my feet, I just stand there hesitating to bend down, and Mway barks away at full throttle, the force from her abdomen kicking her body back and forth like a cannon discharging. Up at the house, I hear the chickens crowing, and a sound of a crash like they’re up on the porch knocking something over. I feel the urge to boot Mway -- but, of course, I don’t. Eventually I bend down, throw the stick a few more times; we play “Put it down” till she grows tired of it herself, then head back to the house.
