Knocking Around

No pictures this morning.  

There are phrases that I know for sure come from my family.  When I talk with my mother in the evening and ask her what she did all day, she says: oh, just knocked around.  

I can lay in bed, upstairs, and hear Murphy at night, knocking around.  For awhile she was redecorating, moving the rocking chair, rearranging the the dog food cans.  Now it seems the decorative pine cones need to be moved.   And when I get up, help her outside, leaving the backdoor open, she seems to want to knock on the door for awhile, almost as if she is expressing frustration (I am convinced she is banging her head against Congress, the City Council, you get my drift!).

While walking the girls last week we ran into a friend, who was owned by a black lab named Murphy.  We met 13 years ago as we crossed paths, our two dogs,  out running in the mornings.  Murphy is gone.  I asked how she knew and she said everything changed, suddenly, that I would know.

All signs still seem ok.  Murphy is still knocking around.

Murphy's day.