Fierce winds, a jealous dog, and a couple of good books

 

Meet Chloe, the therapy dog
Benji didn’t even know it wastime to get up this morning, because it was so dark outside. Texas continues tohave fierce storms—more are due tonight. But this morning, the darkness and theheavy rain gave me a nice reminder of my mom. I could practically hear hervoice saying, “Rain before seven, clear by eleven.” And sure enough, by elevenor a little after it was a lovely sunny day with blessed temperatures in theeighties. And it’s to stay that cool all week.

Benji had a spell of jealousythis evening, though he was, as he always is, good natured about it. Themedical office where I had an appointment today had a therapy dog. That’s Chloeabove—a lovely (and calm) two-year-old Aussiedoodle. At one point we heard ascratching at the exam room door, and the woman with us asked, “Do you likedogs?” Jordan and I assured her we do, so she opened the door, and in cameChloe with a ball in her mouth ready for us to throw. With the door closed andno place to throw the ball Chloe allowed us to love on her a bit and then laydown for a nice nap. Quite a contrast to Benji who jumped about wildly when wecame home and then, a few minutes later, when Mary arrived.

Benji obviously smelled Chloeon me  and gave me such a thoroughwashing with his tongue that I nearly had to shower before I could fix mysupper. Now he’s trying to get me to take an old artificial bone he loves. ButI notice how rough it is, and I wonder if that means he’s chewing offparticles, and we should take it away from him. At eight-thirty, it’s the hourwhen he settles down and lies next to my desk—unless something outsideintrigues him. It’s probably my favorite time of the day—the soft lamp is on,along with the colored lights Jordan long ago put on a collection of pussywillow. They may look like Christmas, but I find them warm and comforting inthe evening.

I read an interesting columntoday about reading habits and mental decline, the latter being a subject ofmuch discussion today with our two aging presidential candidates. I have my ownopinions on who is in mental decline and who isn’t—I bet you can guess!—but Iwon’t go into that. The suggestion in the column was that a switch from fictionto nonfiction might indicate a slowing of brain function. Fiction, the theorygoes, requires active participation by the reader, using the imagination to engagewith the plot and events of a story. Nonfiction on the other hand lays outfacts that the mind can more easily grasp.

I would have thought theopposite. Recently I started the new Erik Larson book, The Demon of Unrest, aboutthe period between the election of President Abraham Lincoln and the Confederatefiring on Fort Sumter, South Carolina, which signaled the beginning of theCivil War. It was then a period when our democracy was as fraught andthreatened as it is now. Larson’s research is superb, his writing clear andcompelling. I found the tension of the foreword—waiting for the Confederateguns to bark out—almost unbearable. Nonfiction at its very best.

But it was not what I needright now. My mind has enough tension and suspense of its own—I don’t need to grapplewith history.. Raher, I need escape, so I turned to an unread book on myKindle; A Big, Fat Greek Murder, by Kate Collins. It’s a cozy, no deepdark problems (except murder) and it distracted me from my own situation. WhatI’m trying to say is that I found—and often find—fiction easier to read than nonfiction,less demanding on my brain. How about you? What kind of reading is easier, morerelaxing for you?

Thanks to Kait Carson, whowrites thrillers, often about deep sea diving, for bringing up this subject.