I walk up the steps and along the path to the back gate. It’s locked. At least the bolt is across. Walking back along the path I see the landlord’s dog laying in the yard watching me. Up to it’s nose in uncut grass it seemed unbothered by me. Our eyes meet.
Looking around the garden in the twilight I fight the urge to start howling like a wolf. As I glance towards the alley between our street and the next I think about my neighbors. Some of them would be like me, pottering around in the yard, chilling within reach of a glass of wine.
That’s what summer is all about. Warm evenings on the patio, maybe a barbecue, a little chat and a drink. If you are lucky, the last minute caw of a crow, maybe the seee-you of a chickadee. If you are really lucky an absence, even for a moment, of speeding cars, sirens and lawnmowers.
It’s past the sprinkler hour. That period where I would like to believe that people are reusing the rain water they’ve collected to keep their lawns nice and green. I know the truth, but on this pleasant summer evening I indulge in the myth that everyone really has gone green.
Leaving the dog’s idle gaze I rejoin my class of wine. The dog is a friendly good natured canine and I am an indulgent, generous human. A human who does not, normally, howl like a wolf. I feel, some how, like the dog has right idea.
I dream of howling loud and being joined by my neighbors. Hearing me they put down their barbecue tongs and beer glasses and join me in a anonymous chorus of howls. After a few minutes the howls dissolve into distant chuckles and smiles. It’s summer and the weekend has arrived.
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