The morning ritual varies little. We go together from the kitchen
kennel to the deck. Seven steps lead down to the yard. He is an
old dog now. His hip dysplasia hurts him more each week. He
hesitates looking up at me with rheumy eyes.

"Go on, Rowdy," I coax. He starts carefully down. At the bottom
he surveys the expanse of lawn before him. His name fit him
when he was a pup. Does he remember how he romped and
and chased and played here once? He must.

The truth of the mind the Greeks called it and upheld the reality of
outward things, of nature, when all the East denied it.

He steps into the grass, relieves himself, and painfully climbs
back to me. The day is not far when relief won't justify the hurt.
Does he know this? His eyes leave little doubt.

The truth of the spirit, wherein suffering - which each must face
alone - affirms the inward soul, they also held.

To balance the outward and the inward was life's challenge to the
Greeks and raised men above the beasts. They were right about
so many things, one error may be forgiven.