Day of Rest

After two weeks of rolling out of bed with the sun, stumbling down the stairs, grabbing coffee and keys, and heading out to walk in the early morning cool and sunshine, I needed a day of rest. Just some sleep in time (till 6:30); then hanging out on the back deck leisurely sipping from my mug 'o joe. Hitting the trails before everyone else is a solitary joy, so much so that I have continued to do it for decades and will continue on as long as I am able. But to sit quietly and observe robins pulling worms from the lawn or preening under garden sprinklers, to greet the hens as they hop down out of their nighttime tree retreat, to watch the sun curl over the trees and spill into the vegetable garden, has its own sweetness. Since most days, I'm up, out, and on the move with barking, whining dogs, I forget the joy of stillness and quiet.

Old dogs with lymphoma need days off too, days to lounge on the couch in morning stillness, days to lie in a south-facing back yard before mid-morning sun cooks it, days to take it easy. If asked, Nicholai would probably tell you that these occasional days off from walks are unnecessary, that every day is a good day to hit the road. But I see the value of these intermittent breaks from the routine in his jauntier steps, freer hip action, and decreased panting the following day. My experience as a chiropractor –and just as an aging human – leads me to believe in the recuperative power of rest – and so we do.

As I write this morning, the sun is just breaching the tall trees and tripping into the office. Robins and sparrows chirp and bathe, squirrels dance from limb to limb on the way to corn and sunflower seeds in a feeder on our fence, and my dear old Nickel-pickle lounges peacefully nearby. Tomorrow morning, we'll be up and out with the dawn again, for today … rest.