August Contemplation

A lonely flood bulb illuminates the worn concrete stairs that lead down into a jungle of cracking asphalt and unkempt grasses, casting the manicured lawn and planting beds into shadow beyond the green-wire dog fence. Moths pound themselves against the bulb in cadence with the chirping insects and late summer mating calls of amphibians shrouded by dense vegetation.

A spider descends from the top rails and dangles from a thin thread like a tiny moon irradiated by a 40 watt sun. It begins its work, casting off and connecting, weaving silken threads. Perhaps it’s an exercise in absolute futility – large insects tear through the tapestry with ease and a rate that outpaces the little spider’s spinning proficiency. A zealous katydid would send it spiraling into the unknown, cast off into the deep grasses far below, yet the spider continues its patient work.

I crack the seal on my can of ginger ale and Nutmeg’s overly-large ears perk at the soft hiss the carbonation escaping the can. She cocks her large head and arches an eyebrow.

She’s a coward, really. Her resounding German Shepherd bark should invoke visions of noble police dogs mauling the Michelin Man. Nutmeg wouldn’t maul in intruder. Quite the opposite: Nutmeg would insist that the intruder stroke her fur and, having failed to gain his affections, she would squat in my dining room and have a spite pee. Thus her bark is reserved for the Truly Dangerous Things in this world such as the sound of the doorbell from the television. She often hurls her bark towards the Invisible People that only the idiotic Pomeranian can see.

Truffle the Pomeranian, despite all her longing, has settled into her own misfortune within the vast confines of the Indoors. She glares at me through the storm door’s snot-frosted glass, behind which she has been banished to avoid the inevitable war between us: “Human, throw the ball or I will squeeze myself through the 2” opening under the back gate and have a stroll at my own leisure.”

I’m none too pleased with her after her rude display towards the air conditioner repairman today (yipping her head off and biting at his boot heels) but I grant her access to the deck. It’s only fair to allow her a moment of summer bliss. Sadly, and within a matter of seconds, the deck has become a crime scene. The patient spider is missing, its web is in strands and the Pomeranian is furiously chewing with full understanding that she needs to completely consume the contents of her mouth before I scrape them out with a finger.

I reprimand her, a quiet breath that comes out as “ruf’l” in my effort to keep the neighborhood asleep, and her bottle brush tail wags in time with her frantic jaw movement. I scoop her up and exile her to her comfortable prison once more.

There is something magical about late summer nights. I go outside when I can’t sleep. I sit and meditate, letting my mind explore. There’s little sense in tossing and turning in bed. And so, here I am, blogging my thoughts for a change. There is much going on in the world today and much going on in my world.

I turn the dogs out for a last call before finishing up my writing. The sounds haven’t changed and the ambiance is still beautiful. I pause as a white orb lowers itself by a string; the spider has survived the Pomeranian.

1 responded with...:

Tammy said...

I am in awe at the beauty of your writing. You are one of those writers, when telling your story it is as if I am there, and can truly imagine that which surrounds me.