This spring, the nights are soft. Sometimes they are misty, and the streetlamps glow. Sometimes you get a dance in the air, when the warmth is still mixing with the coolness that springs up at sunset. Other times there's a bit of an edge, a crispness with a little nip, yet kinder, gentler than the bite of fall.
With his double coat, Max seems to like these night walks best. He patrols purposefully, checking the same markers, intent on our route. There's none of the amble that's in his midday step. Or panting. He's on high alert for neighborhood cats, and seems to remember where each lives and how it will behave in his presence. This one is a runner, and he strains against me to make it GO. That one is not, and we stalk past with dignity.
There's often water on the pavement and I love that smell. Max licks obsessively at it, since he is denied access to dirt water at home.
I also get more scent treats on these nights. There's mock orange and jasmine and, when I get home, the secret night perfume of thousands of lady banks. It won't last, I know.The heat is coming. The blooms are fading. Yet on these nights, in this particular year, all those pretty spring words are true. Waft. Bloom. Blossom. Bud. Leaf.
These walks are a time of deep peace for me, which is rare these days. I feel that at last I am done for the day. It's not sensible to expect more. There is only the walk, and then quiet nighttime pursuits.
My neighborhood is both old and medium Napa. It's filled with hopeful post-war built cottages, little streets and grownup trees. There's also the occasional Victorian-style home, with obviously abbreviated land, yielded to make houses like my little place. Mostly though, there are cottages. Small homes where people came to start new lives in the wake of the war.
What did these post-war people think about depression? Did it seem silly or even a nice problem to have compared to the losses of war? To the sharpness of death and loss and destruction? If I talked to them of my sadness, my nothingness, would they feel that same sharp exasperation I feel when someone complains about what I consider a non-problem?
We get a window onto people's unfolding night lives too. Not that many of us around here seem to need to shut the curtains and keep out the eyes of the world. I suspect the dark cottages are filled with children and exhausted parents, trying to rev up for the next swirling day. In the grownup places, there are fewer TVs blinking away than I would have guessed. More people at computers. People together at tables, outside and in, usually laughing. Then there are also the weary late comers, perhaps restaurant workers. They pull up to their houses and rush in, absolutely and completely done for the day.
The cars are working cars, a large portion trucks, mostly in good repair. They are on the street. Though these homes have garages and carports, they aren't large, and can't hold multiple cars, let alone all the other toys we like to store these days. These houses were built when one car was the dream. The landscaping is like that too. Modest, not amazing, yet not unbeautiful either.
Max ignores the cars, except to jump into the occasional flat bed of an open truck. Another clue as to his mysterious possibly-working-dog past. The open back of my sister's Jeep is natural to him. Anxious about being shut in, or shut out of a house, he is always calm in a car.
Where are all the dogs? That's another thing I wonder on these soft nights. The air is ridiculously delicious, the temperature inviting of a walk yet mostly, we are the only ones on patrol.
OK, skip the dogs. Where are the people? Mostly we encounter sneaky teens; very few adults seem to take the night air anymore. This despite the inviting climate, the beauty, the welcoming neighborhood, and universal acceptance of the benefits of a post-dinner stroll.
I was one of those non-walkers though. Before Max came, I walked seldom at night even though I always loved it. Into town, to the movies, someplace with a purpose. A dog gives you that excuse to amble.
It's addictive. Now I twitch on those few nights I'm not giving Max his outing. I don't sleep as quickly or as well. His limp is a problem for me. Once we're out and moving, I would like to stay immersed in my soft nights for longer and longer but it's hard on him to go for a long time. Too soon, we turn back.
