Once for every blade of grass, he barked. For every stone in the driveway and every cloud. For every raindrop or breath or petal in bloom, he barked. Thanks Ozzie.

Across the street was a lawnmower and a more distant grinding sound. Debris fed into a chipper? What a ridiculously loud morning.

Later I run with the dogs until I hear nothing other than wind and a forest floor crunching underfoot.

I catch pieces of The Stand on TV and Jerry announces: Thank God it's over. I can't do another 30 seconds of Stephen King.

You like this stuff that makes no sense, he asks.

Yup, I answer.

We hear Lily's growly bark spread through the woods and echo off trees standing with indifference to wildlife clambering up and down its trunk, nesting in its branches, and the cold and the heat and Lily's voice slipping past knots and limbs.

That's your dog barking, Jerry said.

Dogs and doggy things are strewn throughout the house. Can't stride with confidence or urgency without jamming a toe against an aluminum food dish that slaps like a cymbal across hardwood and into the rocking chair.