I take Lucy to a  big park that is near my home. Among all the baseball and soccer fields there’s a part that is open and sort of wild. I let her out on long retractable leash so she can roam safely, because she is eager to sniff and hunt and her recall is not at all consistent, especially if there are squirrels—and there are always squirrel.

Yesterday she got the leash tangled in a bush, and it took me quite a while to free it. By the time I had, she and I were covered with hundreds—and I am not exaggerating when I write “hundreds”—of small burrs.  We looked ridiculous, both of us covered with brown polka-dots.

When we got home she sat so patiently while I combed the stubborn things out of her fur. Throughout the day I found more lodged in her coat.  It took me 20 minutes to get burrs out of my hair. Getting them off my jacket will be a pastime for a long time to come.

The interesting thing about all this for me is that it seemed like no bother at all,  and actually it was entertaining and hilarious. I take this as evidence of my peaceful state. Even annoying sticky prickles don’t really stick or prickle.