AUGUST DAYS OF DOGS

Where was I this summer? Spring arrived as spring usually does and then the weeks of June arrived and the solstice with it. Now it is August and I am walking one of my dogs through the sun-beaten paths between the spent and withered corn husks in my side garden. It is another 95 degree day and the sky is a bluebird blue. My great friend; my big, white, fluff-ball of a Great Pyrenees puppy labors along before me on his leash. His leash is an old canoe or kayak strap used to lash down the boats atop some vehicle or trailer. It just seems to fit him right at his collar and it is of a wide and soft material making it an ideal tether held in my hand as he occasionally lunges ahead inspired by some smell or other. His name is 'Cassidy'. In my days I have read just about everything that the American author Jack Kerouac has ever written. It only seemed right to name my dog after one of Kerouac's great western heroes and friends, -Neil Cassady. (The spelling with an 'i' is of my choice) Anyway, the afternoon is a burner. Cassidy will not last much longer before wanting the direction of the farm house once again and the comfort of the air-conditioning. His tongue hangs dripping and bouncing from the side of his muzzle. It is the color of a new pencil's eraser end. His eyes are dark walnut and twinkle-soft. We both move along. I halt him after a moment as we have come to a last, short row of tomato plants. They are of the cherry tomato variety and I pluck a couple wiping them on my t-shirt as we continue. I 'pop' them into my mouth. The little devils are wonderful. There is nothing quite like the sweet, sun-warmed taste of native tomatoes pulled directly from the plant. We amble our way up past an old, abandoned structure on my property once defined as a very active General Store and Post Office. Next we turn onto the hot, dry gravel road that parallels the farm and house and the stretch of my land that goes along with it. Cassidy is ready for the coolness of the house and is pulling me along in his best fashion. He is only 10 months old but is without question a pound or two over 100 pounds. I command him and plant my 'country-boy' feet into the dirt of the winding road work and manage to slow him a considerable amount. He turns as if knowing and proceeds onto the house a little more slowly. So Cassidy and I return to the front porch. I open the door and release him from his leash into the darkness of the cooling house. He bounds like a very large, happy, white rabbit. I close the door and turn again towards the road. I still have another half-hour or so before the start of my Boston Red Sox game. I receive the audio of the game via my computer and a wireless speaker. It is the best way here in these rolling hills of the Missouri Ozarks.

So, it is late summer. It is reminding me that the weeks and days are numbered. Where has the time escaped to? Where has the time gone again for another year? Soon it will be Autumn. The flowers are in full bloom but their time is measured. All of this living from day to day, year to year is somewhere being measured. All of this existance somewhere is being measured. We are only bouncing 'cosmos' and 'sunflower' faces in the summer breezes of it all. It is a day, it is a life. I have my best friends, -my dogs. I know there is laughter and barking at the end of the rainbow. And who knows? Soon it may rain but, chances are slim for this day.