It's about time for a very small story or two. The big issues can wait. They'll eventually come back around. Today was about small things. When I was out and about, I enjoyed the weakening light of autumn, and the colors and crispness of the air lent itself to quiet reflection and enjoyment. I got to have a conversation with my dad today, about how quickly the years and seasons pass now that we are older. I once held this idea that the season of dry leaves and colors lasted for so long, possibly because I love it so much, or possibly because it's just my favorite. But it goes quickly, doesn't it? It's just a few weeks that the leaves are golden, scarlet, and russet. Once they hit the ground and skitter around, industrious humans set about removing them before they can be thoroughly stomped in and enjoyed. I have to push myself to get out in them before they are all gone. It's too easy to miss them now.
Feeding time with animals takes on certain routines. While cats have favorite spots to eat from, they can swap out bowls without crisis. Dogs, on the other hand, seem to need familiarity. If we break pattern, by some chance or experiment, our three will ignore the error, and perform the same dances regardless. I've been moved to break out into song twice in the last few days by the process. We pour the dog crunchies over a half inch of water in their bowls, in order to slow down the two fast eaters who would otherwise hoover up their kibbles and then move in menacingly on Bump, who is much more of a picky eater. (Late last week, this inspired me to sing to myself, "I'm going off the rails on the gravy train." Yeah, I know that's not how Ozzy sings it, but Ozzy doesn't live at my Park.) So we always start with Bump, who barks the entire way to his bowl. (Feeding him first also makes the procedure less painful to sensitive eardrums.) The other two come along to watch, but they know they aren't allowed to poke their noses in Bump's bowl unless he walks away after all humans are out of range. From there we go to Murrayland, and he high-steps in his wheels every time. I tried to capture him prancing along, but he wants to do that beside me, or to herd me to his bowl. He refused to cooperate while I sang to him, "We can prance if we want to, we can leave our cares behind." After he has his meal (for which he always thanks me with a little kiss or bonk with his nose before he eats), Elsa knows she is on center stage. She leaps and twirls in the air, ending with the same two-hop-then-sit flourish. We didn't give her enough credit for being smart when she was younger, but she did her own choreography, and she has kept it up for over eight years now. I'd call that pretty clever.
I received a new set of photos from the west coast, once my daughter made it home. She sat down with bread and butter and instantly had a little buddy at her side, trying his cross-eyed best to talk her out of a little taste of butter. I'm not sure how his begging is going to go over here. Not because he isn't good at it, nor because I am particularly immune to a cat who genuinely loves dairy products. He is going to have a rude awakening when he learns that there are two others occupying higher spots in the food chain than he will have upon arrival. Athena and Alfred have stopped respecting my personal space when I eat, and they have started coming at me from two sides when I have snacks, regardless of whether they actually like what I'm eating. It was funny at first, but now that they actually lean in and sniff a fork or a plate while it's in use, and do it often, it's probably time to re-establish the rules around here. Assuming it's not too late.
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