Demons, Dog Shit, & Grace Before Coffee
Soon Boghadair joined in, and two cats were crawling over the now rumbling Border Collie. I finally give in and get up and feed them. I like my cats but they fall somewhere in rank of favoritism between the best sheep and the rabbits. I share my home with them because they eat and catch rats and mice and because I have low self esteem. This is proven by the fact that I wake up and walk downstairs and before a regal dog is let outside to pee or I dare start my morning coffee, the cats are fed. What can I say? I'm a sucker for flattery, even when I know I'm being used. Cats are demonic, but I haven't seen a drop of mice turd or flash of rat tail in months.
With the yowlers fed I take the dogs out for a brisk walk. They putter and piss and I walk alongside them in my morning uniform. I have on milk-and-mud-stained canvas pants. An old, wool sweater, and a hand-knit hat. I look up at the hillside notice the thick clouds of fog rolling up and down past the sheep. It is magical enough to give me pause, and remind me to go through the things I am grateful for that morning.
I find that if I don't take a minute to be thankful before the work of the day starts, it is always a bad day. You can't expect anything from the day without a foundation of grace, however scrappy. So I say my morning prayers while the dogs scamp and growl. Anyone driving by would see a bundled up woman with uncombed hair staring at a hillside while dogs wrestle at her feet. They don't need to know my secrets. Inside I am on fire from the lack of want. As if all the things I stayed up the night before worrying about were doused with lighter fluid in a big copper kettle and set aflame. All that is left is a ringing sound, a singing bowl. This is what gratitude can offer before breakfast. Even if you're stepping in dog shit.