Wednesday, October 15, 2014
Aussie Party at Our House
Early this morning a cold front blew through the Texas hill country, although it would be more accurate to call it a "not quite so hot front." But we'll take it! First day in forever with a high under ninety, and I discovered some startling news about my Aussies. All these months I thought they were following me around the house because they love me so dearly, but turns out it was because the temperature in the house was more comfortable than outside. Way more comfortable. This morning, finally, the Texan outdoors felt cool and fresh and the house seemed stuffy and hot in comparison. Out the dogs went, and out they stayed. They tore around the yard, barking and dive-bombing each other, taunting each other with filthy toys and things they've stolen from the recycling, and didn't come in at all. Didn't look for me. Didn't check to see where I was. Didn't follow me when I walked past them to feed the chickens. I was crushed!
But happy for them. It's nice to see them so frisky, so engaged with each other, nice to see them sniffing the air joyously instead of plastering themselves to the cool tile floor of the kitchen and declining to budge. I finished the breakfast dishes, started some stock for soup (Yay for soup weather!), started a bread sponge (Yay for baking bread without incinerating my kitchen!) and went outside to throw the purple ball for them. They were waaaaaay too fired up to bring it back to me consistently; Ivy grabbed it and continued sprinting around the yard with the ball in her mouth, darting up to me for another throw every so often. I sat and watched them, thinking about how fun it will be to wear long sleeves, to cuddle up with my husband, to eat Honeycrisp apples when the fall crop comes in, and to be able to walk my dogs at times other than 5:00 AM. Yes, the drought continues. We've just finished the driest twelve months in our state's history. Am I partying while Rome burns? Kind of. But my dogs' joy is contagious. I felt unreasonably happy sitting outside with them, throwing that spit-covered ball. Now, hours later, the bread is cooling on my kitchen table, the stock has turned into minestrone, and the temperature begins with an "8." Not a 9, not a 1 followed by two other numbers. I'm going to live it up while I can.