yesterday she spent the entire day in this spot, at the open door, wanting out, but staying in. the rain finally stopped, but the world was wet; there was pollen stuck to the pavement. she would only step outside if i stepped outside, even if the rain was still raining, would hide in the monkey grass to surprise me as i rounded the curve on the sidewalk. it was a change for her, avoiding the rain, staying inside, and i, being me, worried that it meant something. lately she comes in early and when i step out of the shower, she is waiting for me, ready for bed. perhaps she just wants to read over my shoulder.
as darkness finally fell last night, she shook herself, suddenly hungry, suddenly deciding to head outside, staying out there longer than i'd expected, staying longer than she has in weeks, and i, being me, worried she wouldn't come back in, and flashlight in hand, walked out into the still wet night, calling her more than i've lately done, and returned to my book. another half hour and she poked her head through the still open door. home.
she has been here since the spring of my mother's death, three years ago - it will be our fourth summer together. this morning she is asleep against my left thigh as i type, her once-upon-a-time favorite place. the sun is finding its way through the clouds.
summer. day 3 begins.