The Door Between Us

           She didn’t bark. She didn’t beg. She simply looked at me through the door, her eyes catching mine like a whisper.

          “Come sit in the sun with me,” she said. Maybe not in words, but that’s exactly what she wanted from me.

          I was busy, as life gets sometimes, and I didn’t want to go sit with her — at least not at the moment.

          Sometimes if I leave the door open she’ll go sit in the sun by herself. I opened the door and went about my chore.

A bee buzzed up to me as I stood rinsing a plate. I better close the screen, I thought as I shooed him toward the open door. Around the corner of the counter I go, herding a bee ahead of me and there she was. Bondi. Just standing there. Waiting. Those eyes! Wide, steady, full of quiet insistence.

          “Please come sit in the sun with me?” they beseeched me.

The bee flew off.

And Bondi, with nothing but a look, had already changed the course of my day.

          So I dried my hands, left the dishes where they were, and went outside. I took my chair at the patio table and Bondi settled into a patch of sun.

Raini, ever alert to my movements, trotted out behind us. With her dark coat, she warmed up fast and soon claimed a chair in the shade for herself. I had to laugh. She had her head resting against the armrest and one lip was curled in a snarl, like she was halfway between a nap and a protest.

The breeze stirred the trees, and for a few quiet minutes, the world stopped asking anything of me. Nothing to do but sit with the girls, two dogs who understand, better than most, that sometimes the best thing you can do is simply be still.

I am so happy and so content in my little cocoon that I could absolutely sit there for hours and just let the day slip by. Eventually Bondi got too hot and moved to the shade. I took that as my cue to pull on my big girl pants and return to the world of dishes and duties. The girls followed me inside and settled in their beds while I finished the dishes!

Sometimes the invitation isn’t loud. It’s a glance through the door, a warm patch of sun, a lip caught in a sleepy snarl. And if we’re wise, or just lucky enough, to say yes, even for a moment, the world hushes around us. These are the moments that ask only for our presence. They wrap around the soul like sunlight on skin, reminding us that rest isn’t wasted — it’s holy. 

All of my patio sitting time wasn’t spent in idle reflection; I actually made and painted nine tin can flowers. I’m making them for my cute little red-headed sister. She can put the twenty-three pieces together in any pattern she wants and if she wants to change the color of any of them, a can of spray paint will take care of that. 

          This bruiser was in the middle of the yard, hundreds of feet from the pond. He was moving with purpose, like he had a map in his head and no time to take questions. Where he was going, I don’t know. When he saw us, he stopped.

“Don’t get too close. They’re fast and can snap off a finger,” my handsome mountain man reminded me.

Snapping turtles aren’t exactly cuddly, and with jaws strong enough to crush bone, I figured he didn’t need my help — or my fingers. They don’t go looking for trouble, but if you get too close, they’ll remind you why they’re called snappers.

I took his picture and left him to go about his business. Sometimes the best thing we can do is step back, respect the mission, and let the ancient ones pass. The next time I checked, he was gone.

Speaking of critters...

We went out for a few groceries this week and decided not to go to our usual stores. We decided to go in the other direction and went to Sayre instead of Tunkhannock.

I took pictures.

We were stopped at a traffic light when I spotted these two trouble makers — whistle pigs, as my grandfather used to call them, feasting like they’d inherited the place. Not in a field or roadside ditch, but smack in the front yard of a house where no one lives anymore. The porch was quiet, the grass a little wild, leaves scattered like confetti from last season’s party. And there they were, chowing down like squatters at a salad bar.

Traffic rushed by just yards away, but they didn’t flinch. I snapped a few pictures while they posed like they’d been waiting for a photographer all morning. One looked up mid-bite, the other kept chewing. No fear. No hurry. It struck me how unfazed they were. No concern for the noise or the cars.

There’s something about animals reclaiming abandoned spaces that feels both wild and wise. They don’t ask permission. They just show up, settle in, and live like the world still belongs to them. And maybe, in a way, it does.

And remember. The best way to handle chaos is to ignore it completely and keep chewing! 

A patch of sunlit trees, dressed in their autumn best, burning gold, rust, and ember, catches my eye — and Mike’s.

“Look at the trees,” he said even as I was snapping away with my camera.

“Peg, what color is ember?” you ask.

I’m so glad you asked!

Ember is a rich, warm hue that sits between red and orange on the color spectrum. Think of the glowing coals at the heart of a fire.

We didn’t see color everywhere but we did see it in a few places.

We heard they’re extending one of the neighboring well pads and adding five new wells. Three of our surrounding neighbors received notification that they would be in that pool of gas, however, we are not.

We took a golf cart ride out the dirt road to see what we could see.

I spotted some snowberries.

The genus name Symphoricarpos means “fruits borne together,” a nod to their clustered appearance.

Deer, bears, and birds feed on snowberries. They persist through frost and snow, offering food and shelter when other plants have gone to bed for the winter.

Native Americans used it for burns, rashes, and skin sores. A decoction was made to treat stomach issues, menstrual disorders, fevers, and tuberculosis. The berries were sometimes use as a soap substitute, thanks to their foamy texture when crushed.

In Russian folk use, the berries were crushed and rubbed on hands as a soothing lotion.

The berries contain alkaloids which can be toxic if ingested in large amounts, so it’s better not to eat them.

 Nature is reclaiming. 

Mike went down and helped his buddy Lou, the guy who bought Charlie Cheshire’s old house.

Lou is clearing fallen trees and stumps, as well as bringing large rocks up to build a ramp where he can load and unload his equipment. Lou would load rocks into the bucket of Mike’s tractor and Mike would bring them up and dump them in the pile.

Lou is also making a path down to the creek. Mike took me to see the progress.

I had to walk the last few yards to the water. Mike, who lets Bondi ride on his lap, let her down. Raini wears a leash for our rides, but I let her drag it behind her as the girls followed me to the creek.

For the most part the girls stayed with me. Even when they went exploring on their own, I didn’t think there would be any danger to them. We weren’t close to other houses or the road.

I was distracted by the wildflowers.

A spiderwort.

Turtlehead.

I looked up and didn’t see the girls. I called them and started walking back to where Mike waited on the golf cart. That’s when I spotted this thing on the rocks of the creek bed.

The bright pink color caught my attention. I picked it up and saw brown peeking out in places and thought, “POOP!” I dropped it pretty quick. It wasn’t wet or slimy, it was dry, and if it was poop then I already had it on my hands. I can wash, I thought and picked it up again.

What in the world did he eat to make the outside of his poop pink and shiny? I wondered.

A little way from this one, I found another, smaller one. This one had a stem attached, then I knew it wasn’t poop.

I took my phone from my pocket, opened Lens on Google and took a picture. Lens said it was the fruit of a prickly pear.

I picked up three altogether and brought them home. I thought I’d try to grow a prickly pear.

After a few days on my desk, it starts to look like this. The seeds, a bright ember color, were popping out of the drying outer layer.

I was scrolling Facebook and came across this picture.

That looks like what I have! This is from a Magnolia tree.

Now my curiosity is piqued.

Why did Google Lens think it was a prickly pear?

I Googled it and found two pictures. I guess it did sort of resemble it.

I guess Lens doesn’t always get it right.

Now I think I’ll try to grow a magnolia tree, but don’t hold your breath. I don’t have a green thumb.

 That’s not the end of the going-to-the-creek story.

After we were all back on the cart and headed for home, I got a whiff of something that didn’t smell very good.

Wet dog, I think.

And took a picture of the back of Lou’s house as we were coming back from the creek.

“He’s going to clear this whole area,” Mike tells me. “Over there is where we were getting the rocks from.”

I surveyed the tree-cleared ground, rocky, rough, and scattered with crushed milkweed as Mike slowly drives through, and suddenly exclaim, “Stop!”

“What?”

“There’s a Monarch caterpillar. I’m taking him home.”

“Lou won’t be back for a week or so,” Mike said.

“That could be worse. He might crush the chrysalis.”

I scooped up the caterpillar and brought him home, determined to give him a safe place to grow. Finding a fresh milkweed wasn’t easy. Most had gone yellow with the season, curling at the edges like old paper. Only the ones tucked into shady corners still held their green.

Later, I was working at my computer, and Raini was curled up on her bed under my desk. The smell drifting up was unpleasant, to say the least.

          I guess I’d better get her in the shower, I thought and went about getting things set up. The water on and warm, the soap within reach, me stripped down to my skivvies. Then I went for Raini.

It’s like she has a sixth sense or something. I usually can’t go anyplace without my little Velcro dog glued to my heels, but somehow she knew was what coming. I called, “Raini!” but she didn’t come. I tried again, putting excitement in my voice like she was getting a treat.

“Raini! Come here!”

I found her cowering in her kennel, looking mournfully through the bars like an inmate on death row.

          “Come on! You stink!” I told her and grabbed her collar. I had to all but drag her to the shower.

I knew I’d have only one shot to get us both in the shower and get the door shut. Thankfully, one shot was all I needed. We were in.

I let go of her collar—and that’s when I saw it. My hand and her collar were smeared in the fresh, foresty scent of poop.

Now, I can’t say for sure what critter left its calling card. Raini finds all kinds of droppings simply irresistible. But around here, deer are the usual suspects.

I got the water on and adjusted and Raini tried to go straight through the clear glass door.

“Stop!” I admonished, grabbed her collar, and pulled her back. “You did this to yourself,” I reminded her.

I started by flushing bits from her collar, flea collar, under her chin, and even a little on the side of her face and in her ear! Once the chunks stopped falling to the shower floor and were safely flushed down the drain, I got the rest of Raini wet. I had to take off her collars, both to clean them and to wash underneath.

My gallon jug of Dawn dish soap with its plunger top was sitting on the shower seat. With my hand under the nozzle and my thumb on the plunger, I got a big handful and leathered her up, rinsed her, and for good measure, lathered her again.

For the most part Raini was pretty good. I even felt a little sorry for her. “I’m sorry I had to wash your perfume off,” I told her. “You’re all done now,” and I went to work washing her collars before I shut the water off.

I used my hand to squeegee as much water from her as I could, then waited for the inevitable shake. She gave me two good ones, spraying me like a sprinkler system gone rogue, before I opened the door.

The last thing I needed was a wet dog tearing through the house, leaping onto the couch, and drying her coat on the cushions. I kept my arm around her neck as we stepped out of the shower and grabbed the towel I’d set aside.

Once I started toweling her off, she really leaned into it. She wasn’t going anywhere. For a dog who’d just endured the indignity of a bath, she looked downright content, her tail wagging as I rubbed her down. And just like that, she forgave me with a big, sloppy kiss to the face.

We went straight from the shower to outside. I hung her collars to dry, and Raini bolted into the yard like joy had a tail. She found a spot that suited her, rubbed her face against the grass, then her neck, then flopped down and rolled onto her back, wiggling with abandon. I could hear her grunts of pleasure all the way to the patio.

Then she popped up, trotted to another patch, and continued her ministrations on the other side, restoring her natural scent, one grassy roll at a time. 

There are only three more pictures left in this week’s file.

Look at the size of the splinter in my finger!

It was on my right hand, and wouldn’t you know it, my favorite splinter-picker was gone.

“Who’s your favorite splinter-picker?” you wanna know.

My beautiful neighbor Steph. She’s always glad to help me get a splinter out when I can’t manage it myself. She’s got younger eyes and a willing spirit. But she was off on a business trip.

Since the splinter was in my right hand, I’d have to use my left to get it out — and I’m right-handed. Not ideal.

Luckily, I waited until it was good and sore and pus-filled. I barely had to prick it before it shot out of there like it was spring-loaded. 

The Rainbow Bridge on a foggy morning.

And lastly, a sundog. Just a tiny bit of rainbow on an otherwise clear day.

The kind of thing you only see if you’re looking up at the right moment, and maybe something you need if you’ve had a week full of wildflowers, poopy paws, and splinters that shoot like seeds.

It didn’t last long, most sundogs don’t.

But it was enough.

Let’s call this one done!