I woke up, put my pants on,
grabbed the same shirt I wore
the day before, chugged a
cup of water, and headed
out the door.
Early Seattle springs are still
chilly in the mornings.
I like
to walk at a fast pace,
moving blood through my body
before the workday begins
at the coffee shop.
“12 oz latte please,
thanks so much…” The regular interaction takes place.
I feel anger in that moment
for the mediocrity of my attention.
The same day yet again.
The same feelings.
The same yesterday.
Per usual, right on cue,
David walks in with his
massive dog named Mouse.
Just like yesterday.
Same time. Same place.
I can hardly stand it…
Everyone walking the same routes,
no creativity, the same day,
the same yesterday.
Actually, this time,
there is something different.
Mouse looks slower.
A little thinner, maybe.
His energy is different,
and so is David’s.
I pat Mouse on the head
and his two back legs
slide out on the smooth
concrete floor into an ever-
widening V.
He collapses.
I immediately feel afraid
that I’ve done something
to hurt him, but David
just looks at me, unsurprised.
“He has an unknown protein
deficiency,” he tells me.
“He can’t move very well,
and is getting weaker every day.
For the time being,
I’m taking Mouse on the
same walk we’ve taken
for the last ten years
together, as his time left
is unknown.
It’s his favorite time
of day.”
I feel a lump in my throat,
something I haven’t felt
organically in… well,
I don’t know how long.
I sit down, take a breath,
and watch the morning
move around me.
Cups clicking.
Voices chattering.
The tired smiles.
The greetings.
The coffee orders.
I put my headphones back on.
But this time,
I don’t press play.