My yard is drowning in tennis balls. Yet they are so effectively hidden in the like-colored grass and unlikely-to-be-looked-at treetops that upon first glance, one would never guess it.
While indulging repeated rounds of fetch, I hazily philosophize: the temporary comfort gleaned from gazing at such an ideal layer of outward ease lasts only until the realization dawns that underneath exists nothing but insanity - and the fact that I am gifted at getting things stuck in trees.
But such seems to be the general trend of life...
Despite this, my tennis ball infested yard makes me very happy.
(One could argue that this is because I am not responsible for mowing.)
The real culprit of this chaos is now sideways sprawled on the cool concrete by my feet, panting and sleeping in such an efficient multitasking manner that it will only be a matter of minutes before she is both energized and cooled enough to go for another manic race around the house and out the doggy door, not failing to decimate a forlorn flip flop or two before I even summon the forethought stand up.
My life feels so cartoon-like at times that I picture her as a roadrunner and myself, most often, suspended in air off the edge of a cliff trying to keep up.
Suspended or no, though, I am assuredly of the non panting breed; instead, this Texas summer day has my shirt sticking to my sides and stray hairs bedspringing from my brow. I have convinced myself that ear tagging cows this morning in full ferocity of the sun only added a friendly layer of freckles to my face, but still have yet to remove the dirt (perhaps mistaken as freckles) to reveal whether a sunburn exists underneath. I feel, in either case, that my prolonged contact with the cloudless heat has squeezed most of the energy from me... or whatever could have been left of it, after changing 3 time zones in a week and lately being chewed up and spit out by the shopping mall due to an annoyingly necessary list.