Hello, world
4pm, 8 June 2008
As fate would have it, the ebb and flow of household members leaves me all alone this morning. Normally this is a privilege, a chance to deal slowly with the non-caffeinated part of the day in relaxed silence. Except, as fate would have it, this being Wednesday, I slowly become aware of a grave obligation. A few instants, and the full horror hits me: I must do something, and soon, or be forced to converse with the marauding alcoholic gardener whose gentle thievery has often left us with nary a drop of spirits to be found.
I weigh my options, and inspiration dawns: a lengthy excursion in the name of dog exercise. I grab the beast by the neck even as he still celebrates my surviving the night, fasten him to the end of a rope, and head out in search of safe harbour.
It rained yesterday, not enthusiastically but enough to soak briefly through the grass and into the soil. This, and poor choice of footwear, slightly dampens my high spirits at having escaped the clutches of the Gardener. But moistened days like these bring a sort of happy delirium to Cody, with the scents of the outside world spurred into action by the wet. Sure enough, meandering round the edge of the park, he pounces with an extra dose of glee on each clump of grass, each small winged insect that dares to coincide with our trajectory.
Misty veils of rain pass overhead, much unlike the previous day’s heavy-footed showers. Now the sky dusts our sloped terrain with artistry, illuminating nearby objects while blurring the background landscape into relative obscurity.
nVidia would kill for this effect, I think. It keeps the golfers at bay too.
I decide to take a shortcut to the private drive that runs through the middle of the park — my ill-chosen loafers, glorified slippers, are becoming gradually sodden.
We emerge onto the road and Cody’s nose detaches from the ground, where it was fastened for the last hundred metres. Points of interest are more intermittent here, and the more exciting for it. Where there are recent grass cuttings, he runs along throwing them into the air with his mouth. They are one of his favourite hobbies. Sometimes he eats them, which is not so adorable.
He dashes over to a small stick on the verge, afraid I’ll see it first, and claim it as my own. For barely an instant it is fantastically exciting, before he ditches it for a potentially-edible lump some distance away. He leaps onwards, bouncing relentlessly from point to point, each utterly electrifying, each consuming him, absolutely, momentarily.
A fetid deposit from the lawnmower comes into range. I prepare to reign him in — this one looks delicious — but no action is necessary: an irresistible presence, a breath of something interrupts him, and he turns back, down, along the road, chasing some imperceptible fluff as it skitters away over the tarmac. And I think to myself, This dog has been running Microsoft all along.