Dog Days

Sometimes I wish I was a dog.

Not very often, mind you, but sometimes it happens. Especially today.

Because while both me and Sammie are on the front porch enjoying this mild spring day, he seems to be better at it than me.

Sprawled out on the wooden deck, half of his black body in the shade, half in the sun, eyes closed. Once in awhile, his head will rise, watching a goat walk by or a bird flutter past, but mostly he just exists there.

On the other hand, I’m sitting in a chair, computer on my lap, Billie Holiday playing through the speakers. A nice existence, don’t get me wrong, but nice in a different way.

Sammie’s biggest concern is whether or not I’ll ever open the front door for him to go back inside. That must be nice.

Sometimes I wish I was a dog.

I wouldn’t be concerned with what time it was or my plans for the evening. I wouldn’t worry about applying for more jobs or finding a place to live in two months.

I would be a dog. And dogs just don’t care.

That would be nice. For an afternoon, at least.

After that, I’d probably be tired of walking on four legs and eating weird processed dog food. Chasing squirrels and raccoons might be fun, though.

Sometimes I wish I was a dog.

But I thank God I’m not a cat.