Writing at midnight.

The Frost performs its secret ministry, 

Unhelped by any wind.

We've just come in from a dog walk in mist qua rain.

"Weird weather," I said.

Today has been weird weather--something about the sky and the imperceptibly greatening light, which, despite its infinitesimal increase, today felt dim and wet. I went out to get the paper with Bruiser. The walk and driveway looked wet but were in fact icy, which I discovered by slipping. Not falling, but clearly the whole situation was precarious from the get go. I went in and made myself some tea and read the Times.

Last night very late, my son came home from Sweden. I didn't hear him come in, but I did hear the dog hear him come in. He slept till noon. Yesterday, while he was laid over in some airport or another because of a missed connection, he said: "So what's for breakfast?"

I said, "I was thinking waffles."

"Waffles it is, then," he said. And I was true to my word.

My best friend made me these waffles when I visited her last summer, and they are in fact the best waffles I have ever eaten or made. At noon, or shortly thereafter, my son ate them while he was still emerging from his sleep. You know, that period where you're still assembling all the moving parts in your brain, not to mention your body? and you would really rather that no one is talking to you just now? even if you just came home from Sweden, and all that that implies?

After two or three attempts, we had a conversation or so. He brought me a marshmallow-y candy in the shape of a Santa. "Classic Swedish candy," he said. It was sweet and stretchy.

"How many hours of light were there?" the historian asked.

"Four or five?" my son said. "It was dark."

I think we're working on about eight around here, but the mist makes the light harder to interpret as light. I'm hoping the mist qua rain turns into rain qua rain, and the light becomes less ambiguous. Not to mention the air.

...whether the eave-drops fall 

Heard only in the trances of the blast, 

Or if the secret ministry of frost 

Shall hang them up in silent icicles, 

Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.

Position opening.

tonight, walking before maybe another storm, the moon was full full full

high in the sky, unveiling itself then disappearing into a pool of milky, cloudy light

Bruiser capered and pulled ahead, then stopped to bury his nose in snow

what's there, Bruiser? what comfit, cure, what medicine?

Dear Bruiser,

Today, in the mail, I found the following:




I once believed--when I thought about it, which was not, truthfully, very often--that you could not read. But who knows? You're now getting mail, addressed to you. With some news for you, Bruiser!

I'm sorry to say, though, that the news is a little presumptuous. In this newsletter, there's a coupon:

I don't know what "senior" means in Dog, but around here, when we hear "senior," we demur. We protest. We flat out deny. I am speaking of myself here, obviously.

And when we were out walking today, I thought, how can they say "senior"? to Bruiser? Because you were cantering and prancing and, in fact, took me for a little drag when a small, yappy dog behind a wooden fence had a thing or two to say. It was impressive, B, I just want you to know I felt your vigor--was, in fact, moved by it--and I thought, I don't know if a so-called senior dog would have that kind of gumption.

I say, let the people keep their labels to themselves. Labels cannot contain you. (I am speaking of myself here, obviously.)

love,

htms

Signifying dog.

Tonight, for a variety of reasons, we couldn't take Bruiser for his evening constitutional. One of those reasons was not the fact that I am watching Lost like it's my job. I'm still in the first season, and I am currently experiencing thoughts that most of America had six years ago, such as, "Matthew Fox . . . dreamy."

HOWEVER. I had just finished with one episode and was about to start the next one, when the historian spoke from the other room. I paused, said, "What?" and he said, "I thought you were done with that episode," and I said, "I was, but I was starting a new one--but do you need to talk?" and at that word--the word that rhymes with "w-a-l-k" (I spelled it, although the B can also spell)--my intelligent canine roused himself from his torpor, and said, effectively, "I know that word: rhymes with walk."

Other signs and portents the B can interpret:

• the putting on of sneakers
• when I say, "so shall we do this?"
• or when I say, "so, what do you think?"
• or when I say, "Okay!"

All these things mean "walk." Walk WALK walk walk walk. The only word that's as important as walk in the Bruiser lexicon is "food," but he prefers that, rather than using the alphabet, we spell this word with actual cheese.

And now, resuming my Lost viewing.

Thrill seeker.

These days, when I take Bruiser out for a walk, I am taking my life in my hands.  Bruiser is, it must be said, an excitable dog.  The snow really revs him up:  his usual stopping and starting is amped up--he stops to shove his nose into soft snow, possibly to find frozen treats, and then wheels around to take off in a flash. Add to this general dog enthusiasm for the snowy weather the fact that the sidewalks in my neighborhood are, on the spectrum that ranges from "shoveled" to "unshoveled," all over the map.  

I have come to be a very astute observer of the varying iciness of the walks.  There are walks so meticulously shoveled that they are almost dry; walks that have been worked over by a snow blower but which have underlayers of ice; snow-packed walks; walks that were never shoveled but have nonetheless been tramped on and sculpted by feet, so that they're like the freaking Matterhorn, but flatter.  

I'm not walking, exactly; I'm scrambling, or free-styling, or almost hiking.  All this with a rambunctious dog on a leash.  "Hey!" I say.  Often.  Or, "Hold on!" Or, "Don't pull me!" Or combinations thereof:  "Hey!  Hey!  Hold on, Bruiser.  Don't pull me.  Hey! You can't pull me."  My goal is to get through the winter without ending up on my butt on some sidewalk a mile from home, with Bruiser about fifteen feet ahead of me, still on the leash, foraging for God knows what horrible thing that has been preserved specifically for him in the snow.  

Surprises galore.

Bruiser and I are now taking daily morning walks. He has come to expect it, so that when I've finished my breakfast and I make any move toward my shoes, he's singing the "we're taking a walk right now, right?" song, con gusto, vivace.

So I get on my walking shoes, grab a plastic bag, clip on my stylish green iPod shuffle. Sunglasses, leash, and we're off. We have a little routine, which is helpful for us, since Bruiser now has expectations--turn left, then cross the street, then right, etc.

When Bruiser first came into our lives, he was hell bent for leather on the leash--always straining, prepared to dash off after any cat or dog, running circles around us, basically, chasing stray smells. The dog park became our salvation. But now, it turns out it's kind of nice to go for this morning walk. He's not such a madcap crazy anymore. We have a good time.

This morning, after I woke up a little bleary-eyed, and after I succumbed to a teeny post-breakfast nap, Bruiser sat on the bed by me. He looked off to the side, and then, placing his paw, rather gently, on my arm, he looked deep into my eyes, just briefly. He repeated this little routine four times. I'm pretty sure he was trying to get me going for the day. He was right--the walk was just the thing to short-circuit my weariness.

While we walk, I have the music going, an odd mix due to the fact that there aren't, at any given time, so many music files on my computer (there were too many, and my computer kept groaning at me). But the beauty of the shuffle is the chance to listen to new music, music I mean to listen to but might not bump into for awhile. I'm not sure if older generations of the shuffle had the capacity for a random shuffle as well as playing straight through the music just as it's loaded. I've been playing straight through which means I've run into a substantial hit of the following recently: Air, an early Regina Spektor disk, Apples in Stereo (awesome for working out, anyone who actually works out), Emmylou Harris, Tres Chicas, early Rufus Wainwright, gorgeous Richard Thompson from Grizzly Man, Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings, The Band with various guests from The Last Waltz, Dr. John, Brad Mehldau, M.I.A., the new Magnetic Fields . . . Between the music and the little dog-walk-chat I always keep going ("let's cross here, Bruiser. What a good boy! this way, Bruiser. What a good boy!"), it must be a total joy to run into me in the neighborhood.