on freezing cold

A few mornings ago, I made the mistake of stepping off of my yoga mat while squaring it to the wall in preparation for doing Forearm Balance. I do my yoga practice on a concrete floor in an unheated room in the rear of the house, and the floor is so cold that I usually wear sandals when walking on it. For hours after having stepped with my left foot onto the icy surface, the extremity was so cold I could barely feel it. I am used to such conditions – I try to heat my house only when such action is required to keep the pipes from freezing, and I prefer an extra layer of clothes and a second pair of woolen socks to firing up the furnace or wood-stove. My foot was saved that day not by me but by the rump of the neighbor's tan bitch, who sat on it, warming it with the type of love that dogs express when they lick our wounds and sit with us when we are sad. At the time, the act seemed so selflessly compassionate that it nearly me cry, and I have thought of it repeatedly, a bright yellow, comforting memory. The bitch merely did what she considered necessary; she would have done the same for just about anyone else; and it changes not how I treat her – with patience and respect, with long pets and scratches, and by staying vigilant to her needs for fresh water and getting outside to pee. Puppies dearest, how you shine, gone for good your fearful whine. With you bellow, prance, and heal, we your friends whose hearts you steal. Gone your worries, gone your stress, with your presence we are blessed. Huzzah.

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