This Is Not My Beautiful Dog

September days seem better when they dress themselves up as July ones. The sky, like my head, is nearly empty of clouds and the bamboo flowering next to the deck hums like a last blast buffet for dozens of hornets.

My concentration is limited to wondering how many more Grolsch might be left in the ridiculously distant refrigerator and my back is to the human soup that is Honeypot's pool. A noise invites me to at least think of turning to it but I don't have to, I know what it is.

Over the past few weeks, Honeypot's oldest son has been assembling a frame and fixing a canopy over a freestanding carport in the driveway. His clanging and 'creating' brings to mind Tom Waits' What's He Building? but I decide no action is required until I hear screams or smell smoke.

Settling back to my beer, I ponder over a dream I had. I was on my way to meet Beth from A Cup of Coffey. I was walking in an unfamiliar city through drizzle and as I rounded the corner of a building as grey as the light, I spied David Byrne standing with a small dog. Next to him were many more haphazardly stacked cages with assorted small dogs inside. I knew he was waiting for Beth but unsure whether I wanted to make small talk, I considered turning around. He spotted me and I felt I should be polite and go over.

He explained that in order to meet Beth, you need to have a dog with you. As I puzzled over this and bent to look at some of the other dogs in cages, Mr. Byrne chirped on and on. I wondered if Beth would ever show up but before that could happen, my alarm clock rescued me.

Why am I using this time thinking about dreams? A small reserve of energy allows me mobility enough to retrieve the second to last beer and I settle back. The noise next door stops momentarily, the last cloud particles dissolve from sight and mind and I smile thinking this is one fine day.