On Being in the Doghouse

By choice, I am spending part of each day in the doghouse, and once a week, or so, I try to sleep there as well.

My doghouse is located deep in our woods, almost a half mile from our house. It is perched on a trail carved by deer and hangs over a spring fed creek.

Yesterday, as I sat on the wooden slatted bench under the covered porch, an elegant form circled twice over my head before landing in a branch about ten feet from me and at eye level. A great blue heron. I sat motionless for several minutes while it preened its feathers, then it majestically spread its wings and floated off down the stream.

The doghouse is a technology-free zone. It was built without electricity and that is how it stands. Inside, there is a sleeping loft, a small table and two chairs, and a small pot bellied stove. There are huge windows on three sides.

All day and night the creek gurgles loudly as the water rushes over the stones. In the day, a thousand birds chirp. In the evening, a thousand frogs croak. At night, I snore.