Gray days

Today is a dismal day, gray and gloomy. It'd be a perfect day to just slop around the house, doing nothing in particular, and I've been following that plan so far. Unfortunately, I'm out of some staples - no bread, no beans, no dishwasher detergent. I could go without any of those for another day, I think, but I see no reason to believe the weather will be any better tomorrow. Besides, procrastination is my besetting sin. (Well, one of them, anyway, and the one that causes the most overt trouble.) If I'm ever to break it, I'm going to have to stop putting things off, and this is an easy place to start.

But it's nasty out there.

But Ben keeps bouncing at me; he so wants a walk. Murphy does too, but all he's doing is grumbling and emitting an occasional woof.

Yuck. None of the choices look good.

Murphy just came in from outside (all wet, of course) to see if I've come to my senses yet. He's gazing at me over his shoulder, rather piteously.

All right. You win.

Walks

The pre-walk ritual is always the same. I go to the front closet, where I keep my shoes and the leashes. Ben stands nearby, emitting a continual stream of yaps. Murphy lumbers away in search of one of his fetch-toys. He brings it back and bumps me with it. (I'm trying to put on my shoes, mind you.) Eventually, I make a grab for it and we play tug-of-war for a bit. (My shoes are still untied.) Finally he lets go, and I toss it for him. We usually go two, sometimes three rounds of this before I get my shoes tied. Then I unhook the leashes. Ben gets, if possible, even more excited; he stands up on his hind legs and yodels, pawing at me. Murphy starts doing laps around the furniture. I have no trouble getting the leash on Ben; he's upright, and he usually backs into a corner for stability. Murphy is less tractable; he stands with his back to me, looking over his shoulder. I make a grab and he twists away. I plead with him. ("Look, mutt, this was your idea!") Finally I manage to corral him and get the leash on. The fun's not quite over, though; Ben, though leashed, is still dancing in front of the door, and I have to shove him aside so we can go out.

Today, as we began, it was not raining. It waited until I got across the street before starting: slow, fat drops, tolerable for a short time. We usually walk the same route: one short block south, a longer one east, then back north and west again for home. The dogs were less dilatory than usual; perhaps the dampness was muffling the smells, which was all to the good under the circumstances. Still, they found reasons to stop and sniff at intervals.

Halfway mark. The inevitable happens: the rain begins to pour. I begin moving briskly for home, or at least trying to. Murphy looks miserable. (He's good at that. Half basset, you know.) Ben keeps trying to stop and shake. (In vain I explain that it does no good in the middle of a downpour.) All three of us are sopping when we get through the front door again. I put the leashes up, pull off my shoes, and grab the big fluffy towel to dry them off. I decide to blot myself first. Murphy's next; he hates the towel, and submits sullenly, breaking away as soon as opportunity arises. Ben loves the towel; he wriggles as I towel him off, and when we're done he gives a puppy-bow and dashes off to grab a toy.

None of this towelling does much good, of course. They're still wet, I'm still wet, and I still don't have any bread.