I take our dog, Bailey, out on a leash now. Even if only down the driveway into our roomy backyard with its array of mini- gardens. This has been the routine since the vet informed us that our portly mixed breed, in all likelihood, has a torn ACL. No, he's not on the local canine roundball squad. How he managed to hobble himself is pure conjecture. But not having to reach the yard via the two sets of basement stairs seems to be easier on his pins---to use an expression I recently heard on Entertainment Tonight.
This morning as I trudged behind Bailey through a meager remnant of snowfall (who's complaining?), bundled up with the jacket hood tight over my head, what pops into my head but a famous painting , "Hunters in the Snow" by Pieter Brueghel, the Flemish Renaissance artist (above).
It was a sort of deja vu--- right out of a 16th century work of art. For the briefest of moments, I was transported to the distant past on the wings of a memory.
The poet Ezra Pound once wrote that the artist is the antenna of the race. This morning I picked up signals from a Flemish Master.