The little dog must be glad for the opportunity to go out, since she's lying in the middle of the floor in the semi-darkness of the back room, with her tail wagging. My wife lies asleep a few feet away. I give her the "pick-up" that she was hoping for and she rewards me with a lick to my beard. My beard saves me from the less than pleasant sensation of doggy slobber. I put her down at the door and put on my rubber mocs and pick up the flashlight. Then we step out onto the dark porch.
It seems to me that the only glow in the east is from the big security light out by the road. Dad had it put in when he had the sawmill here and we never had it taken down. My wife won't LET me take it down now, even if it WOULD save us about $8 a month. I can't blame her, it makes aiming easier, so we keep it.
The neighborhood roosters must see light that I don't. One is crowing at the home of our neighbor to the north, about 300 yards away. Another sounds off at the second mobile home to the south, about 200 yards distant. Two whippoorwills to the east, on the ridge behind the empty McMansion across the road, refuse to concede the night and sing on. A steady rustling in the trees around us reminds me that it's trying to blow in some rain today. There's no dew when we step down into the grass.
The dog squats and drains, then stands up looking relieved. I check her with a with paper towel to see if there's any trace of the urinary tract infection we've been fighting, but all is well. The cranberries I'm feeding her must be working. Then, before I can take her to the area that I save for such things, she quickly hunkers and pops out a rock-hard deposit. She looks up at me with a sneaky look on her face when I scold her for her ill manners, then gives a whole-body shake as if to say, "There, I feel better!" No doubt she does.
We move to the porch. I don't think either of us want to go in, but standing here in the darkness in my skivvies, I know the mosquitoes will soon find me if I tarry too long. The breeze is still whispering in the trees and the roosters and the whippoorwills are still disputing the time of day as I close the door behind us. Soon, the little dog will return to her bed, and I'll go upstairs to mine. © 2013