Top Posts & Pages
The morning air is moist and fragrant with roses and lavender as we walk down the narrow dirt lane towards the road. The skies are the color of India ink as rain clouds roll across the mountains. I pull up the hood of my rain slicker. My elderly Labrador, Bob, trails along about ten feet behind me. His tongue hangs out as he pants with the effort of keeping up, his legs moving stiffly with each step. I wonder how many more of these walks Bob and I have left. Each morning, he watches as I lace my sneakers, his pale golden tail wagging in anticipation. Then he struggles to his feet and waits as I unlatch the front door, then slowly follows me down the lane. Walking without Bob is unimaginable.
As we approach the road, a mother bluejay swoops down and screams at us as she protects her nest high in the pine tree that stands at the end of my lane. I ignore her protests as I pull the thin stack of envelopes and circulars from the battered and rusted mailbox. The mailbox has stood like a sentinel at the entrance to my lane for more years than I care to count. It’s pointless to replace it. On warm summer nights, the high school boys race down our country road in their fathers’ trucks, swinging baseball bats at mailboxes.
Our mission accomplished, Bob and I turn back towards the cottage. Bob’s pace quickens as he approaches the front door where my husband is waiting. I imagine that Bob has caught the scent of the breakfast waiting for us, crispy strips of bacon with fluffy pancakes drenched in butter and real maple syrup. He will lick the plate when we are done, his tail swinging side to side to express his happiness.