Bessie Anne and I were sitting out on the deck in the shade to enjoy the cooling breeze. I'd gotten sucked into watching a couple of old movies back to back, "Waterloo Bridge" (Vivien Leigh, Robert Taylor, 1940) and "Prisoner of Zenda" (Ronald Colman, Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., C. Aubrey Smith, Raymond Massey, David Niven, 1937), and needed some fresh air. I got air alright. Bessie likes to lie by my feet with her head resting on the lower railing, watching the scene below and thinking doggie thoughts, perhaps dreaming doggie dreams. Birds were chirping, hens were clucking, and the neighbor's donkey brayed. From under the table by my side came quiet little toots, not the silent but deadly sort. Bess does not normally have gas attacks, but she definitely had one yesterday. I was grateful for the breeze that prevented a miasma from forming. (I once had a dog who could create a green fog that would make your eyes water.) Bessie was oblivious, not even raising her head at the minor explosions. I should have named her Tootsie.
Today is my daughter's birthday. I remember her birth day, one of the happiest days of my life, as if it were yesterday. She is still my joy.