Thank You, Dirt.

Alone with my thoughts. Alone too often? Maybe. My phone rings. The word spam is under the number. The location: Kissimmee, Florida.

Desperation for connection overrides common sense.

“Hello?”

“Congratulations! You’ve been pre-selected for our no-cost evaluation of…”

End.

Defeated.

I place a welcome mat at the foot of the door. Don’t take off your boots. Matter of fact, track in as much dirt as you can. I’m having an open house for negative thoughts in need of a home. I deserve it. I just answered a spam call – on purpose.

I pick the phone back off the desk. I need to scroll. I need to find something. Someone. Someplace. Somewhere. Somewhat? I have no idea. My thumbs muscle memory has become like walking. A mind of their own.

I catch myself. Lock the phone. Place it back on the desk.

A paw scratches my shoulder. It’s corrugated, like forty grit sandpaper.

I know Dirt's paws. He knows my thoughts. This is not the first time we’ve been here. Only the first time today.

He knows what I need. I trust him. And I don’t trust anybody. He jumps towards the door. I follow. Shoes? No. I need to feel the earth.

My thumbs scroll on glass. I won’t allow this for my feet. They need the grass. They need the sand. The pine needles. Even the old rusty roofing tack if it’s on my path. A rusty nail doesn’t lie. And it’s far less painful than an endless void of mindless scrolling and spam calls.

It’s hot. It’s supposed to be hot. It’s August. Truth.

Mosquitoes are everywhere. They’re hungry. Truth.

Dirt doesn’t leave my side. He loves me. Truth.

I’m grounded once more.

Relief.

Thank you, Dirt.

They know us better than we know ourselves. Pay attention to what matters, because they always do.

Have a wonderful Labor Day weekend.