Quitting time

It's after six. She's been waiting for an hour to hear the quitting-time whistle: which for her is the thud of my car door and my footsteps as I climb the side porch. 

My dear old floppy-eared dog, whose own workday follows a narrow patch of sun around the house until it slowly disappears into the dark of evening, is beyond ready to stretch her legs. She has a tough job, lying in that sunny spot all day, wherever it is, with only the briefest of respites to engage quite fully in her second job: patrolling the yard to chase visiting birds and resident marmots. 

I can hear her pacing and panting before I open the door. Walk! Walk! is the translation of her excited greeting. Nothing else matters, not even the sky with its ominous shade of gray. 

The exertion of her greeting isn’t enough, not when the neighborhood and all its mysteries await. There's good old "squirrel alley" to explore, not to mention a new "poop corridor."  There are homebound dogs who will be waiting to sound the alarm at the proximity of our temporary territorial intrusion.

Also known as our evening walk. 

It takes a minute to change and gather up supplies. The leash is in its usual place, but the waste bags are missing. She will bark at me accusingly as I try and locate a fresh roll.

She is so insistent on getting outside that she doesn’t notice the thickening air that is all around us.

But all I can see is a giant swirling mass of marbled fissures in the clouds when I look up at the sky. A low rumble off in the distance gives me pause. It could be a truck speeding over some neglected section of winter-heaved pavement. Or it could be thunder. 

The daily rain hasn't helped the situation. I run through all kinds of mental calculations before I commit to this practice of unwinding.  I consult the weather radar; I plan a route that builds in the prospect of temporary shelter should we get caught in a storm. If we are lucky we will be back before the deluge. 

The news has me worried about washouts. 

Before we leave, I remind my daughter, who is getting ready to start her workday, not to drive through standing water. 

"You can't tell if the road is still there. Better to turn around and go another way."

I wish we could all turn around and go another way. Toward a direction that examines the problems we face without trying to consumer-select a way out. There will never be a refrigerator efficient enough, nor a bottle recyclable enough, nor a straw reusable enough to mitigate this disaster our modern efficiency greed has rendered. 

The dog is whining now. I'm off on a tangent while she waits for the leash to come out of its basket. 

"Stupid human. You will NOT solve climate change, or any of the ills of consumerism, by grasping at straws. You cannot stop nature from taking revenge.  But you can stop me from these, my appointed rounds."