They come to “do their business.” They answer to Butters, Argus, Leica, Mao, Peanut, Banjo, Tucker, Gabe, Flora, Reggie, Jesse, Bucky, Geebs, Honey, Ben, Henry, Qora. They come to dig, to roam, to graze on kale, to harvest strawberries with the gentlest soft retriever mouth, to bask in the sun, to activate their instincts. The meadow is home to many dogs.
A certain gruff, matted hound from down the street sometimes shambles over on his own and hangs out with us while we’re working, not interacting directly, but just sort of scuffing around among us. The meadow provides neighbors with a green space, familiar ground for their dogs, and for themselves.
There are neighbors I’ve gotten to know over these past years. Daily walks foster wide-ranging conversations. These neighbors have seen the meadow transform, and it’s wonderful to hear their reflections. They are great friends of the meadow and often tell me something they’ve noticed—a planting we’ve just done, or a bed we’ve just clarified. Their daily walks allow for extended observations at times I’m not usually there. Two coyotes perched on the compost for its warmth on a cold night, for example, is a vision I think of often, but have never myself seen.
Adam Goldberg, who lives just up the street, visits the meadow on most days along with his uncannily silky, golden-eyed dog, Qora, and often picks up any trash that has accumulated over the weekend. He has kindly been keeping an eye on the meadow, spending some extended quiet time with Qora during these months of sheltering in place. I’ll get a text, “Just wanted to let you know I watered the garden today.” Now, six months into the pandemic, when I haven’t been able to get to the meadow as much as I’d like, it means so much to me to know there are these threads of continuity.
We spend a fair amount of time in the meadow working with sticks: breaking them down for compost, trimming them for supports, weaving borders with them. Sticks are a lexical item in the meadow, with many uses. And of course it’s very satisfying to stack up a pile of beautiful redwood branches to offer a dog. I enjoy imagining that Jesse, my partner’s golden retriever, might look on with delight and approval as we go about what for us may be a simple task—snapping twigs for a trellis, but for her may be the moment she’s been waiting for, when we’ve finally joined her in one of her greatest joys.
GL
A certain gruff, matted hound from down the street sometimes shambles over on his own and hangs out with us while we’re working, not interacting directly, but just sort of scuffing around among us. The meadow provides neighbors with a green space, familiar ground for their dogs, and for themselves.
There are neighbors I’ve gotten to know over these past years. Daily walks foster wide-ranging conversations. These neighbors have seen the meadow transform, and it’s wonderful to hear their reflections. They are great friends of the meadow and often tell me something they’ve noticed—a planting we’ve just done, or a bed we’ve just clarified. Their daily walks allow for extended observations at times I’m not usually there. Two coyotes perched on the compost for its warmth on a cold night, for example, is a vision I think of often, but have never myself seen.
Adam Goldberg, who lives just up the street, visits the meadow on most days along with his uncannily silky, golden-eyed dog, Qora, and often picks up any trash that has accumulated over the weekend. He has kindly been keeping an eye on the meadow, spending some extended quiet time with Qora during these months of sheltering in place. I’ll get a text, “Just wanted to let you know I watered the garden today.” Now, six months into the pandemic, when I haven’t been able to get to the meadow as much as I’d like, it means so much to me to know there are these threads of continuity.
We spend a fair amount of time in the meadow working with sticks: breaking them down for compost, trimming them for supports, weaving borders with them. Sticks are a lexical item in the meadow, with many uses. And of course it’s very satisfying to stack up a pile of beautiful redwood branches to offer a dog. I enjoy imagining that Jesse, my partner’s golden retriever, might look on with delight and approval as we go about what for us may be a simple task—snapping twigs for a trellis, but for her may be the moment she’s been waiting for, when we’ve finally joined her in one of her greatest joys.
GL
Secondary Connections
