I was sitting at my kitchen table, drinking hot tea, and trying to think of something to write about. Outside, January had finally come into its own, and it was cold. I, too, was cold, and although I loved the window that overlooked my birdbath and feeder, it also meant that my right shoulder, arm, and hand were never warm as long as I sat there. And since this was the only place I had in my little house with a table, I was cold much of the time. My space heater blew almost intolerably hot air at my left leg, while I draped a throw over my right side to try to offset the cold coming in through the window. My house was small, and also old. I rented, which meant I was at the mercy of my landlord’s whims, and new windows had never been on his list of priorities. I shrink‑wrapped them as much as I could, but the cold still found its way in through unseen cracks and crevices in the walls, around the door, and up from the basement. I stayed because the rent was ridiculously cheap. I stayed because I liked the neighborhood and felt safe. And I stayed because I was allowed to have a dog at no extra charge.
Gradually, I became aware of a nose pressed against my leg. I looked up from the keyboard and saw that it was June, the aforementioned dog. She gazed at me earnestly when she saw she had my attention, trying to convey some important communication with her eyes. She laid her chin briefly on my leg and then did a little two‑step with her front feet. What could she want? I wondered. Her bowl still had uneaten breakfast, and we had already been out for a frigid walk during which she had left two piles of poop in the grass, so what was the urgency? I stroked her head, scratched between her ears, and returned to my laptop. Again, the nose, the earnest look, the chin rest, the two‑step. I considered: she was on new medication that had disrupted her already‑sensitive digestion, so perhaps she needed to go out and leave another pile? I looked outside at the grey, cold morning, lit by a weak, ineffective sun. I didn’t want to go through the ritual of putting on layers of jacket, coat, gaiter, hat, and gloves. I didn’t want to change from warm slippers to cold shoes. But I also didn’t want to clean up after a potential accident. “Do you need to go outside?” I asked June, but her hearing had deteriorated as of late, and she didn’t give me any indication that she understood. Sighing, I shrugged off my throw and went to the door. “Outside?” I repeated, and she looked confused. We had already been outside. Still, I snapped on her leash, opened the door, and watched as she unhurriedly stepped onto the porch. I stayed inside the doorway, reasoning that if she REALLY needed to go, she would, with or without my following her into the yard. June stood on the porch and smelled the frigid air. I wrapped my arms around myself and sought shelter behind the door, leaving just enough space for the leash. “Go on!” I gave the leash a little shake to snap June out of her reverie, but she stayed on the porch. I tugged a bit to see if that would make her come back inside, but she stood, solid and statue‑like, surveying the yard, my car, the birds, the neighborhood. I sighed and tried to go into a patient state of waiting, but a sharp gust of wind put an end to that, and I had had enough. I pulled on the leash with intention. “Come on, June,” I said loudly, and with one last look across the street, she turned and obediently trotted back inside. As was our post-outdoors custom, she laid down for her treat, but I didn’t produce one. This had been a pointless trip outside, and I felt duped. “Nope,” I told her. “You go finish your breakfast.” I sat back down at the kitchen table, one foot tucked under, and tried to pick up my thread of thought. A few minutes passed, then June got up and plodded over to her food bowl, sniffed, and took a few bites before going back to the living room and laying down again. The new medicine had also reduced her appetite, and she had not been as interested in her meals lately.
