Waiting for the Bus

 We live in Paradise. Never is that more apparent than in September, when everything is ripe and full and the meadows haven't been mowed for awhile. Oh, I hate to see them mow right before fall, because then it stays barren all winter, no butterflies, no beautiful weeds sticking up out of the snow, no frost-rimed Queen Anne's lace. But the new guy who's tending our elderly neighbor's fields did come and mow it all down. These photos were taken before he came.

There's a little pair of eyes looking back at you in this first photo. You can see them better in this one:

It's been a very dry late summer. We're finally getting a slow soaking rain today. Chet and I ran anyway, and we both got a hot bath when we got home. Bad weather looks worse from inside a window. Once you're out in it, it feels kind of good. After the first mile.

 

When the bus comes, it trails a rooster-tail of dust behind it. On this day there was a sundog, too, a little strip of rainbow catching the 7:45 AM sunshine.

There is another little sundog who waits for the bus, too.

He guards Liam's pack, sits patiently and listens for the roar of the bus. He always knows when it's coming. He can hear it before we can.

        He checks for squirrelts in the huge pin oak overhead. He's never found one there, but he keeps checking anyway.

 

He's never more beautiful than in the morning sun, waiting for the bus, his satin coat gleaming. 

Here on Indigo Hill, where bluebirds sing the morning in.

The Best-Dressed Dog

I rarely dress my dog so he looks cute. I dress him to keep him warm. The cuteness comes with the package. We both like this little Woolrich coat. Woolrich makes the best dog clothes, at least the best ones I can find. All hail Chez Target. And having a dog who's small enough to dress, and who kind of enjoys it.

I have written before about Chet Baker's uppity nature where other dogs are concerned. For some reason, this basic trait of his is amplified when he's got his gang colors on.

Cooper Davis is his best friend. But look out when Chet's wearing a coat. Maybe he's making a pre-emptive strike in case Cooper decides to say something out of the side of that long black snout about Chet's adorable little letter sweater. Cooper can be sarcastic, under the polite veneer.



All afternoon, Chet seems to have something to prove. We approach one of his favorite climbing logs, and Baker's on it in a flash. Try this, Cooper Davis.

Coat or no coat, I climb very well. I would bet that a dog like you could not climb this log.

No one is stopping you from trying, but do not get your hopes up. This is difficult.

I might not move aside should you try. (note how Chet's normally recumbent turd-tail holds the coat up. He's feeling uppity.)

You probably could not go as fast as I can. Many dogs have fallen from this log.



Because most are not as sure-footed as the Boston Terrier.

You are doing all right for a cattle dog, but you will never attain the grace and speed of me, Chet Baker.

It is misty in Goss' Fork
and the bluebirds are already going to bed in what's left of the shagbark hickory on the hill

One looks out of his roost hole

at the distant foggy hills

and when we get home Chet Baker writes his name on the studio birch. Now everyone knows he's the Top Dog

letter sweater and all.