"Sukers walk, money talks…" - Sammy Hagar
My daily routine, the morning one, is well established at this point. So much so that my controlling nature mandates my getting up to attend to the rituals as a means of assuring the universe, my minuscule segment of it, maintains it's order. Dog's pee, dishwasher runs, coffee grounds get tossed, windows, fans, and thermostats are aligned based on the morning forecast and as often as possible I sit meditating on the non-existence of thought. Occasionally something metaphorically blocks the path, taking me off task in order to address it often at the cost of my universe's stability. Today that something was a limping dog. He seemed fine last night, but struggled to stand this morning. He's aging, this is not the first instance, and they are increasing in frequency. And seventy. We pretty much quarantined him to a makeshift pen to constrain all movement while allowing the injury to heal. Hopefully.
Tommy and I returned to Loch Lomond this morning after at least 10 years. It was poignant and poetic to do so. I know it was as special for him to be there with me as it was for me to return with him.