Without the dog to remind me

My dog spent her formative years living with me in the heart of a northern city. My “yard” then was a 3×12′ well of cinderblock  off the back of the house, so we walked to the park that was six blocks away four times a day, and everything she did in the outside world was bounded by the length of a leash. When I moved to the South, my first requirement in selecting a house was to find one with a fenced-in yard where the dog could run. And she does … but only if I am there to watch her.  She is terrified of being left alone outdoors, even after five years. She is happy to chase squirrels and cats brazen enough to invade her yard, and to poke her nose where it doesn’t belong, like in wasp’s nests, or to bark with her deep-throated voice at sounds that might represent intruders – but only if I am standing within sight. She will always be a city dog in her heart.

But I don’t mind. Because what that means is that I must walk out my door and down the deck steps into the grass and clover beneath the towering trees that ring my yard at least four times a day. It means that I watch the sun rise and set each day, and I watch the moon in its phases as the stars wheel through the seasons at night. Without the dog to remind me, I might not remember the feel of the sun on my face, the smell of honeysuckle on a warm spring night, the bite of north wind on my ears, the mystery of a fog-shrouded dawn. She connects me to the world, to the earth beneath my feet and the arc of the sky above – when, without the dog to remind me, my life might be bounded by a 24″ glowing screen.