Summer bristles at limits, which makes her a dog after my own heart.
The limits are our way of keeping her safe, but who are we to assume we know what’s good for her? Maybe she is capable of fending for herself.
I see a similarity in the way government looks after us — as if we are dogs who need a guiding hand and limits — and so I empathize when Summer chews at her leash, refuses to acknowledge my call, or pulls at the leash to say, “No, I’m going this way and you can’t stop me, except dammit you can.”
I cleared the debris from the turntable and spent my writing time listening to the Dolenz-Nesmith live album, Bruce Springsteen’s Letter To You, The Beach Boys Sunflower album, and now George Shearing.
I need music. It is nourishment for my soul. It unwinds something I am barely conscious of being wound until the music starts to do its work.
Sometimes Summer will stop pulling at the leash, sit down, and watch the world go by. I wonder if she’s hearing music.
