“How beautifully leaves grow old. How full of light and color are their last days.”
The morning is ugly, hot, cloudy and humid. It will stay the same all day. The only saving grace is a small breeze. This is weather befitting August, not September. The dogs aren’t enjoying the weather much either as they come inside panting. I figure they’ll spend the day napping.
The morning is quiet. I don’t hear any voices, any dogs barking or even any cars driving by. Every now and then I can hear the sweet music from the chimes hanging on trees in the backyard. I think the thick air is muting sounds.
Henry is a strange dog, has always been a strange dog. His latest fear is the den light. Its cord is in a power strip but it is loose. Every now and then the light blinks a few times when the cord is moved. Henry jumps off the couch and starts barking every time.
I walk better than I have been walking, but my leg still hurts. The doctor did say 3-5 weeks, and this is week 3, I think. I have lost track of time. Being inside and seeing no one has me losing track of the world. I talk on the phone to people who call to check up on me, but that is my only connection. I am a sort of Robinson Caruso without a Friday.
I have no inclination to do anything. I much prefer fighting for space on the couch. My defense is my leg feels best when I sit so this is a matter of health, not laziness.
When I was a kid, fall was my favorite season. The weather was a delight. The air was clear of summer’s humidity. The light had a sharpness. Everywhere I walked I saw beauty, the colors of the leaves. They seemed to surround me. My favorites were the orange-red leaves. I used to choose the best ones. I’d place the leaves on wax paper, cover them with the paper and iron. The leaves were bright and beautiful forever.
Explore posts in the same categories: Musings
keepthecoffeecoming.blog 
September 6, 2025 at 12:58 pm
For thirty years, my answer was a steadfast “no dog.” That changed in 2021. My wife Jo., her sister, and I found ourselves driving to another county, where two female puppies remained from a litter of seven. Jo. immediately connected with one, and in a moment of perfect serendipity, the breeder’s phone rang. It was the person with the first pick, and they had chosen the other puppy. Just like that, Jo. had her wish.
To this day, none of us can recall who first suggested the name Ellie, but it fits her perfectly. We are now the besotted owners of what we believe to be the most adorable and strong-willed cockapoo on the planet.
On a different note, we’re finally enjoying a pleasant autumn here in Dorset, a welcome relief after a seemingly endless, bone-dry summer.
September 6, 2025 at 1:45 pm
Peebo,
At first I had only two cats then I added a dog, a boxer, the same breed I grew up with. After that I always had two cats and a dog and always a boxer. Every one happened to be a female boxer. Henry broke the trend. My last boxer was Gracie, the best dog. She was 12 when she passed. I was devastated. I hunted for another boxer, but they were too expensive. I found Henry, a mixed male dog being fostered. He looked so sad I couldn’t leave him. I still had two cats, both from a relative who had died. One cat got diabetes and passed away so I had one of each. A couple of years later I got a call from my cousin who had to rehome one of his boxers as his two boxers were fighting all the time. That is how I got Nala. Now I have a cat and two dogs, the first time I ever had two dogs.
I love your story, and I love the name Ellie.
We too had a bone dry summer. Today hasn’t improved. I am doing nothing and still sweating.
September 6, 2025 at 2:16 pm
Katry,
Thanks for your message; it reminded me of a dog we had when I was around twelve, a boxer we named Brandy. We lost him far too soon. I’ve never forgotten him, and I suspect that experience has stayed with me more than I realized.
September 6, 2025 at 3:41 pm
Peebo,
Boxers are unique. They are funny, loyal, stubborn, protective and loving. Their one drawback is they do die young. 8-10 is their life span. Two of my boxers were 8 when they died. Gracie lived the longest. I love all my boxers.