She walks with a hesitant gait, still feeble, a peach fuzz hair as soft as cat fur capping her skull. This is a precise moment, her breath, held precious, as she stops to avidly trace the magical fluting passage of a flock of Cedar Waxwings from one grove to the other.The slanting sunlight, the glittering lake, the kites and sailboats swirling against a Prussian Blue sky; it is a gift. She knows.
Dogs surge like surf around the gate to the off-leash park, a brisk wind ruffling the fur at their shoulders, infiltrating their gaping smiles.
A cluster of several men and women, and a drooling baby Bjorn, arrive at the dog park as she approaches the gate. The group includes a tremendous Malamute dog with a head as wide as a dinner plate. With his furred ears erect; he has the bearing of royalty.
“Oh aren’t you MAGNIFICENT!” the frail woman exclaims. Energized, she shoulders past the crowd in the entryway, with eyes only for the beast.
The dog, of course, ignores her enthusiasm; but one of the men, the not-so-tall guy who is nearest her, turns to see who is speaking.
“Oh, not you, the dog!” she clarifies. Then flustered, with rising amusement swooping like kites, she adds, “I am sure you are quite magnificent also, but I was talking to the dog!”
Breathe deeply the spice of mingled laughter as she and the group of friends and their dogs pass each other through the gates to the dog park. This is Living.