Listening

I've been living in my house for seven weeks now, and each day I hear my house -- and my neighborhood -- telling me something new.

The industrial complexes positioned between Broadway and the Mississippi River emit an unending hum, constant as the plumes of steam and smoke rising from their stacks. The multitude of dogs in the neighbors' yards, communicating with the other local canines (perhaps more than their humans communicate with one another). This communication differs from the multiple alarms sounded by the same dogs when an unfamiliar person is walking down the street, such as a hapless AT&T salesman, trying desperately to get people to welcome Ma Bell back into their homes. The honking of horns at any hour of the day or night from the house across the street and down a bit. Perhaps the occupant carpools to work at a job with terrible hours. Perhaps the person driving is an inconsiderate asshole. Perhaps it's a bit of both. The hum of cars driving slowly down the street. The whoosh of the handful of reckless youths barreling down the same street with little regard for the safety of others. Always in a hurry, but rarely going anywhere.

Occasionally, in the distance, a tug will sound its horn, but more often than not, they deliberately trudge upstream and down in relative silence, regardless of the hour. The river never sleeps, for a barge can not make money if it is anchored and empty.

The refrigerator hums. The furnace clunks on as the gas hisses through the pipes and whooshes out to the flame inside the firebox. Moments later, the blower softly comes alive and sends its warmth throughout the house.

Doc rises from his blanket on the floor in the corner of my office to see if any more food has found its way to his bowl. Even though it is 1 AM and he never is fed at this time, he checks, as it is better to be safe than hungry. His nails tap tap tap tap tap along the cold floor as he makes his way back to his bed where, minutes after laying down, he begins to snore.