The leaves are beginning to turn, woodsmoke is in the air, and most of the perishables have been put by for the winter. From the frantic to the fat season, a harvest moon presides this weekend. Time to party, for the death of winter quickly approaches . . . Halloween is just around the corner.
The weather has changed--it's chilly and off-and-on rainy. Our dogwalks are lively and fast-paced to ward off the chill. The sheep are smug and snug in their woolly coats, and the chickens hide under and inside the chicken house more often now.
Sadie is sitting on my lap sucking my warmth as I write, Seamus is resting pensively next to us, and Ellie is downstairs on her blanket curled up in her inner bliss. So little of the outside world penetrates Ellie's failing senses. I miss young Ellie with her cheerful, bright greetings, her need to watch over me, and her unbounded enthusiasm. We are generally called to witness the frailty that slowly overtakes the dogs we love. Ellie is moving inexorably toward her own winter, and I will miss her terribly.