At last, it’s the time of year for Rascal to loll in the grass. He’s been licking grass for some weeks now. He feels that water is at its tastiest when licked off grass. In fact, he’ll spend long enough licking grass that, as far as you can tell, he’s trying to find which single blade of grass is the tastiest water-bearer. But things have gotten beyond that now.
Now it’s time for rolling in grass. Lollygagging and stretching and spinning in it. Coating oneself in grass clippings. Sometimes, it just has to be done. Yesterday morning, the need to roll in grass beset the dog as we were passing a field of grass that had just been professionally mown and left strewn with the most perfect mats of clippings. Rascal did what needed to be done, and soon he too was covered with those most perfect mats. He looked like a chia pet as we continued our walk.
One of the reasons he rolls in grass seems to be to cool himself down. It makes sense, I suppose. He’s a little black dog. If he can turn himself into a little green dog, he must reflect more light and, thus, heat. But logic, thank goodness, only takes him so far. He would probably also be cooler as a dirt-brown dog, but dirt doesn’t call to him the way grass does.
And grass doesn’t have to be newly cut to appeal to him. Long and lush alone will do the trick. One warm morning last year, he decided to have a lie-down on someone’s lawn and wouldn’t be enticed to move along, even when the lady of the house came to the door to see if the dog was all right. “He’s fine,” I said with some embarrassment. “He just really likes your grass. He’s lying down to cool off.” She asked if he might like some water to drink. “He’d probably think that was even greater than dense, silky grass.” Sure enough, the lady brought him a bowl of water, and he lapped some up before stretching out in the grass again, head up and alert for any other nice things that might come his way.
At this point, the man of the house walked by. “Ah,” he said, “sunshine, water, and nice cool grass: livin’ large, livin’ large.”
My husband and I made a point of livin’ fast one evening recently. Magnolia blooms don’t last long around here. They usually get blown down or rained down pretty quickly. So we made a point of touring the neighborhood to admire them while we could. They come in three and about a-fifth colors near us. The white stars. The pink and dark pink grandifloras. And one poor scraggly yellow grandiflora, struggling to last another year in a spot where it doesn’t have what it needs to thrive. We oohed and aahed over all of them, the fleeting flowers and the shapes of the trees.
They’ve since been joined by serviceberry and full-flowering crabapples. Pear trees everywhere, cherries–mostly weeping, and even a weeping mulberry. Redbuds have managed that remarkable color change they do every spring, bringing forth pinkish purple flowers from those oh-so-red buds. The world is fragrant.
And not all the spring colors are so settled. Some of them are on the wing and very busy. This week at Thurston Pond, two Baltimore orioles zipped low over the leash between Rascal and me, intent on getting to a particular tree. We stood and watched them a bit after they careened through in black and orange finery. I didn’t figure out what they were in a hurry to do, but I enjoyed the show. I’ve seen the wood ducks and hooded mergansers repeatedly, too, and it’s still a thrill.
Cardinals and blue jays are dashing around the neighborhood and our yard. The grass is growing so fast that they disappear when they land in it and surprise you when they pop up again in a new spot. We’re starting to see goldfinches in their bright summer plumage. A great blue heron that approached Thurston Pond low and slow, skimming over the water, looked intensely blue in yesterday’s morning light.
Turtle basking season is full upon us. On our walk last week, Sue and I saw ever so many baskers on windfalls along the river at Bandemer Park, mostly painted and box turtles, each one a flash of light. None of them was particularly large. Some looked too small to register on Dr. Pol’s pet scale. But all of them were livin’ large. That’s what spring’s about: livin’ large.
13 May 2022