Hank is waiting for me to do something, hoping I will either scratch the top of his butt or get up from where I sit at the kitchen table and get him a cookie. His breath stinks like fish oil and old teeth, but when he rests his chin on my thigh and gazes at me with those gentle milky eyes I feel guilty telling him to go lay down. I have to say it loudly because he’s losing his hearing. Once I start typing he walks slowly down the hall, gazing back at me wistfully once or twice. Charlie is asleep at my feet. I’m watching it snow out the kitchen window. The flakes are falling hard and fast now, the storm that was predicted to start last night having finally arrived.
Hard to believe it’s March 21st. Locals kept telling me not to fall for those teaser warm days in late February and early March. They said that winter usually drags on a few weeks too long here in the Northeast, like having that last drunk guest linger at your party after everyone else has left. The storm does unify people however, as a neutral topic upon which we can all commiserate. Out and about in town, stocking up at the grocery store, the pet store, and more urgently, the wine store, I hear similar exchanges. It’s like listening to the British talk about the weather, only less polite.
In yoga this morning birds were singing while I balanced in tree pose and watched snow fall through the window. The cold seems to affect them less than light, and longer days must have convinced them spring is already here. Hank has come back to my side to remind me that it’s dinnertime, as if on cue. It’s only 4:00 pm and I usually don’t feed the animals until 5:00, but Hank’s stomach hasn’t accounted for Daylight Savings yet. This time I get up.
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