Diamonds on brown grass this morning. Brittle blue sky. Snow on the distant and not so distant peaks. “Don’t eat your poop, Mindy,” I say as I open the front door for my furry old dog to enjoy her front yard interlude. ONLY Mindy is allowed in the front yard. It’s her personal domain.
There’s a developmentally disabled guy who lives down the road. He’s about 40 in normal years and about 12 in his particular years. He’s sweet, earnest, and he loves dogs. One afternoon Mindy was enjoying a warm perambulation in the front yard, and I heard Dusty and Bear barking like crazy. I looked out to see this guy had opened the gate and was loving on Mindy and yelling, “Be quiet, Dusty!”
I thought of how in other times he would have been called the “village idiot” and, god-willing, treated with compassion by the townspeople. I think so. Everyone knows him. He goes down the street every afternoon to Dairy Queen where he gets a cold drink. He loves the Broncos and once football season starts, he ALWAYS wears an orange sweatshirt. Once I was at a nearby (everything’s nearby, BTW) restaurant with friends. There was a well-known local musician playing. The DD guy came in, went right up to the singer and asked for a song. The musician nodded and smiled. He finished his song and struck a distinctive chord. Everyone in the restaurant knew just from that what was ahead. The DD guy was enraptured and sang a duet with the musician. ❤