Dances With Both Legs Again

2024.04.19

Good morning always that great place.

Abe's watching shadows through the double-sided entry way door to the sunroom from atop the love seat, head on arm rest, long hound dog running legs stretched out with the nails he trims himself pointing at the coffee table with a blanket, a television remote, a coaster, some hand sewn tea cozies and a blanket from Utah from a Mormon owned company they had flown in from Made in China.

It's still soft. Still comfortable. Still off-white. Of course.

So's Abe. Soft. Comfortable. Off-white in places. Brown in others. Black in nose. Eye circles too, mixed with bright mahogany highlights. Grey-brown ticking down his legs. Spot on his back makes a heart, a brown, Grey's Anatomy Anthology shaped heart, not Valentine shaped brown heart.

The mark on the back side of his head is a waterfowl's portrait, the neck of the bird down the neck of the dog. I watch it when we walk. When he leads the lead along the lake, along the street.

I know he's not oblivious to the traffic coming at us feet away. He doesn't mind so much the way seasoned pedestrians don't.

I don't either. Though, at times, I think of that SUV that lost its hand on the wheel and left me left leg-less, if not for the alloy aluminum nine-inch nail my bone marrow wrapped itself around to take ownership of, so I can walk again.

At times, Abe goes for his leash on the counter and dances. Hop-hop jump! Unannounced and ungoaded starts a walk we both know happens.

How could it not with a dancing dog dancing for a friend he knows carries the leash and can dance, with both legs, again?