When I saw the shirtless, sixtyish form through dense foliage, uphill from the street a half mile below my house, I knew it had to be Izzy, my financial manager. He has a deck, and a hot tub.
Mem., on future Christmas walks I will bring a bathing suit.
It was the first time I have actually attempted a genuine walk since the Catastrophe Of The Fascia back in October, and after two months of dogged rehab my leg is working, but I was not sorry to have an excuse to park my poles and sit on a bench for a while: a grizzled, hyperintelligent tax lawyer with the heart of a small boy, lolling in the grownup’s equivalent of a wading pool, discussing Roth IRAs and lease-back schemes with a fleece-clad gladiatrix. It is in the high fifties out, with a stiff breeze. Steam rose from the bubbling water where Izzy lounged, explaining everything about money. He loves this stuff.
Mrs. Izzy — a favorite person of mine, who wonks bodywork and trauma recovery — returned before my head exploded, with two large Golden Retrievers, each goofier than the other. They are named after Ava Gardner and Scarlett O’Hara, and the only way to tell them apart is by the colors of their collars. I am terrified of most dogs, but they don’t bark, which is the halfth of it, and when told to sit, they sit.
I have a standing invitation to come sit too, though in the spa, where the dogs are probably not allowed. If I can find time, this should help the recovery. And possibly my accounting system.