Lots of poetry has been written on the subject of hope and I’ve posted my two favorites here — “The Darkling Thrush” by Thomas Hardy, and “Hope is the Thing with Feathers” by Emily Dickinson. Hope is that conundrum; we can’t live happily without hope but most of our disappointment is the result of having had hope.
Dogs are the masters of hope. They hope FERVENTLY (as Teddy is hoping for the dregs in my coffee cup just like Dusty T. Dog used to).
His hope is well-tempered by pragmatism. He knows how long it usually takes me to drink my coffee. He might even be able to tell the temperature of the emptying cup. Dogs have keen senses. He also has a lot of faith in me.
As for me, I’m hoping for more snow. I have no pragmatic background knowledge other than it’s ONLY the end of the first part of January and there are at least two more months left to winter and the odds are in my favor (compared to the odds in July, for example). I can’t sit at the feet of the weather gods looking adorable and guilting them into dropping some snow. All I can do is wait, be grateful for what I have (what dog sits around counting its blessings? I’m not sure they don’t; I’m not sure they do), and figure out how to put together this little rack I got for my natural pigment paints that need to be stored upside down.
Meanwhile, Teddy and I have had our coffee, Bear her rawhide cigarettes and they’re onto the next thing which is going outside and patrolling the periphery.
I’m going to go try my new paints.