September 10

Kipper sits on his side in the sun-warmed driveway, enjoying the midday heat that with each passing day seems to be waning. His tongue lolls out to one side, and his chest rises and falls rapidly, though he seems perfectly blissful even on the verge of overheating.

Though autumn is my favorite season, there is a part that is bitter sweet. Perhaps it is because this time is really a signal of the beginning of the ending of this yearly cycle of growth to decline. We tend to notice these progressions more readily now, in the yellowed leaves that start to fall from the trees, hastened by crisp wind, in the call of the Canada Geese that fly high overhead, and in the field of ready pumpkins to be harvested next to the picked rows of sweet corn whose leaves are starting to decay.

These things we experience are indeed simply a part of the cycle of the seasons that have been and will be, with or without us. I have seen 46 such autumns, each unique in its own way and upon my own spirit, all governed by the same successional forces that allow one season to be eclipsed by another.

I think of these things as I watch Kipper in sheer ecstasy on the sun-dappled pavement. I wonder if he is already longing in some way for the spring or summer that already has been, or if he thinks about the waning of this season. Chronologically, we are both in the autumn of our lives, and I wonder if he, like me, has any measure of deep value of these passing seasons which are filled with anticipation and contentment and longing in varied measure.