God grant you’ve a dog at your side and a bigger heart than the one you had in childhood. And you’re mindful—if not prayerful than steadfastly self aware of your bounty for the dog, your dog, gives you her concomitant belief in the function of two. You are, together, a neurological “cat’s cradle” of strings: instinct strings and dashing strings; loyalty strings and strings of agreement for which we have so few words. Sometimes I think of invisible refulgent twine, glittering faith laces holding us together, the blind dude and his guide dog. Some strangers see it. A very old man in a rural Vermont hardware store sees us coming through the door. We’re with our pal Ralph. We’re looking to buy sneakers, for in this little town you buy your sneaks at the hardware which still has a faded sign out front that says “Dry Goods” and now we’re inside the shop which has an honest to God oiled wooden floor, the kind you have to sweep with sawdust and a long handled broom, and we’re standing in a swirl of rich leathery fragrances when the old guy says: “There’s two souls alright!”
God grant you’ve a kind wind on the lake. You and your dog push out from shore in your old rowboat. It’s hard for some to imagine, but the blind man goes rowing and often at night. The lake is peaceful then. The motorboats are gone. Sometimes we hear loons. There’s only a creak of oarlocks, the sprinkle of stray drops, and sometimes breezes make their sound of waves in the pine trees.
It’s instinct we love. It isn’t complicated. We love the small, celestial kisses of opportunity.