Outside At Night, With My Dog

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Welcome

to bedtime stories for everyone, in which

nothing much happens.

You feel good,

and then you fall asleep.

I'm Catherine Nikolai.

I write and read all the stories you hear when nothing much happens.

Audio Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim.

We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to Tiny Paws Atlanta.

Their mission is to take in small dogs in need and rehabilitate them and place them into the most suitable and loving forever homes. Learn more about them in our show notes.

For ad-free and bonus episodes, click subscribe. in Spotify or Apple or go to nothingmuchhappens.com.

Since every episode is someone's first,

I'd like to say a little about how this works.

Silence at bedtime is a modern phenomenon. Our ancestors rested in environments where the fire crackled.
Other members of the group stirred or talked, and the world outside made gentle noises.

In other words, dark nights were accompanied by the sounds of safety, warmth, and company,

which is why a soft voice and soothing words can lull you to sleep. The more you listen, the more reliable your ability to fall and return to sleep will become.

I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through.

If you wake later in the night, don't hesitate to restart the episode.

Our story tonight is called

Outside at Night with My Dog.

And it's a story that you might have read if you have my book, but has never appeared on the podcast before.

I picked it to read for you this week. in tribute to my own dogs as we are healing from loss

and stories are medicine. It's a story about waking with a loved one when the moon is high.

It's also about flower bulbs and a heavy quilt, the scent of the night air as winter arrives,

and the warmth that comes from being there with the ones you love.

It's time.

Get as comfortable as you can.

There is nothing left to do.

You can let go of everything now.

And if letting go feels difficult,

why not just let me hold it for right now?

Here,

give it to me.

I've got it now.

You just rest.

Take a deep breath in through your nose

and sigh from your mouth.

One more time, breathe in

and let it out.

Good.

Outside at night

with my dog,

I heard the soft pad of my dog's paws as he stopped beside the bed.

My ears were programmed to him by now.

I heard when he sighed in the night

or turned over in his bed,

and when he got up

to stand quietly beside me,

I heard that too.

He was an old boy, his muzzle grey and his gait slow and careful.

Our walks had gotten a bit shorter,

but today he'd seen a squirrel

racing along the sidewalk,

and had suddenly found a bit of young dog energy in his limbs.

He'd pulled me, chasing down the path.

Thankfully, he hadn't caught it.

But he liked the chase,

barking as the squirrel ran up a tree and teased him,

chittering away in the language of small animals

who know how quick they are.

I patted his head and told him tried his best.

And shouldn't we be getting on to the park?

I reached out now to rest my hand on him and swung my feet to the floor, sleepy but understanding.

As he had gotten older, he sometimes needed to go out in the middle of the night,

and I didn't mind at all.

I wrapped my robe around me,

pushed my feet into slippers,

and we padded down the stairs and out to the back yard.

Most times

I just let him out and back in a few minutes later.

But something about the way the air smelled

as I opened the door

pulled me out with him.

It was pitch black,

deep night,

around 3 a.m.

And we were in those weeks

when the weather played back and forth

between autumn and winter.

The cold air opened my eyes,

and I turned them upward

to see a clear sky lit by stars,

and a moon a little past half full,

waxing gibbous, I thought.

After my dog had come back to my side,

we both stood very still

and just listened.

summer nights have buzzing bugs

croaking frogs

and a sort of sourceless hum

that comes from nowhere in particular

but is simply present in the air

maybe it is the fecundity of growing surging plants

or just the buzz of liveliness

that is left over from a day in the sun

but it is undoubtedly noisy

there is a particular sound

that can only be heard

in the middle of the night

in the near winter

a shocking quiet

there were no cars driving past,

no animals up and about besides us.

And there was only the faintest sound

of a very light wind

moving through the empty branches high above us.

The land was sleeping.

Her creatures curled in dens,

settling in for the new season.

Bulbs were deep under mulch and dirt,

only dreaming now

of the bright pinks

and purples and yellows

they would unfold into

in the spring.

We stood a moment more

and I let the cold air

nip at my fingers

and move over the back of my neck,

knowing that I'd be back in my warm bed soon.

I took a few very deep breaths

and under the spicy scent

of dry leaves,

there was something clean and clear in the air.

I thought it might be snow.

These clear skies could be thick with clouds tomorrow.

And if we got up again in the middle of the night,

as we probably would,

we could be standing under the first falling flakes of the season.

I bent down and planted a slow kiss on the top of my old boy's head.

Then we turned and went back inside.

He stopped for a drink of water.

I had one too.

And then we slowly took the stairs back up to bed.

He turned a few times

and settled onto his big cushion.

I spread his blanket over him

and tucked it around his back.

He'd be asleep in seconds.

We could all learn this from dogs.

They go from completely awake to deeply asleep in moments

and reverse it just as easily.

I slipped off my robe and slippers

and pulled back the heavy quilt on my bed.

I slid down into the sheets

and smoothed the quilt over me.

I felt the chill go out of my body by degrees

until even the tips of my toes

were warm again.

I thought of the changing season,

of the very quiet wind outside,

and how grateful I was

that my dog had taken me out into it.

This is a gift our friends give us.

They take us places we wouldn't go on our own

and show us things we'd have otherwise missed.

I took a slow breath,

turned onto one side,

and tugged the quilt up over my shoulder.

I felt myself drifting towards sleep.

I pull some of today

into my dreams as I nodded off.

The squirrel flicking her tail high up in the tree.

The pull on the leash as my dog had suddenly wanted to run.

The waxing moon and the sleeping land.

the possibility of snow.

Yes, I was likely to be awakened again to morrow night, and many nights after that.

But I was happy for it.

Outside at night with my dog,

I heard the soft pad of my dog's paws

as he stopped beside the bed.

My ears were programmed to him by now.

I heard when he sighed in the night

or turned over in his bed

and when he got up to stand quietly beside me.

I heard that too.

He was an old boy,

his muzzle gray

and his gait slow and careful.

Our walks had gotten a bit shorter.

But to day

he'd seen a squirrel

racing along the sidewalk

and had suddenly found a bit

of young dog energy in his limbs.

He pulled me

chasing down the path.

Thankfully,

he hadn't caught it,

but he liked the chase.

Barking as the squirrel ran up a tree and teased him,

chittering away

in the language of small animals

who know how quick they are.

I patted his head

and told him he tried his best.

And shouldn't we be getting on to the park?

I reached out now

to rest my hand on him

and swung my feet to the floor.

Sleepy, but understanding.

As he had gotten older,

he sometimes needed to go out in the middle of the night.

I didn't mind at all.

I wrapped my robe around me

and pushed my feet into slippers.

And we padded down the stairs

and out to the backyard.

Most times

I just let him out

and back in

a few minutes later.

But something about the way the air smelled

as I opened the door

pulled me out with him.

It was pitch black,

deep night,

around 3 a.m.

And we were in those weeks when the weather

played back and forth

between autumn and winter.

The cold air

opened my eyes

and I turned them upward

to see a clear sky

lit by stars

and a moon

a little past half full,

waxing gibbous, I thought.

After my dog

had come back to my side,

we both stood very still

and just listened.

Summer nights have buzzing bugs,

croaking frogs,

and a sort of sourceless hum

that comes from nowhere in particular,

but is simply present in the air.

Maybe it is the fecundity

of growing

surging plants,

or just the buzz of liveliness

that is left over

from a day in the sun

but it is undoubtedly noisy

there is a particular sound

that can be heard only in the middle of the night

in the near winter,

a shocking quiet.

There were no cars driving past,

no animals up and about besides us,

and there was only the faintest sound

of a very light wind

moving through the empty branches high above

the land was sleeping

her creatures curled in dens

settling in for the new season

bulbs were deep under mulch and dirt

only dreaming now of the bright pinks

and purples and yellows they would unfold into

in the spring.

We stood a moment more

and I let the cold air nip at my fingers

and move over the back of my neck,

knowing that I'd be back in my warm bed soon.

I took a few

very deep breaths

and under the spicy scent

of dry leaves

there was something clean

and clear in the air.

I thought it might be snow.

These clear skies

could be thick with clouds tomorrow.

And if we got up again in the middle of the night,

as we probably would,

we could be standing

under the first falling flakes of the season.

I bent down

and planted a slow kiss

on the top of my old boy's head.

And we turned

and went back inside.

He stopped for a drink of water.

I had one too.

And then we slowly took the stairs

back up to bed.

He turned a few times

and settled onto his big soft cushion.

I spread his blanket over him

and tucked it in around his back.

He'd be asleep in seconds.

We should all learn this from dogs.

They can go from completely awake to deeply asleep in moments

and reverse it just as easily.

I slipped off my robe and slippers

and pulled back the heavy quilt on my bed.

I slid down into the sheets

and smoothed the quilt over me.

I felt the chill go out of my body by degrees

until even the tips of my toes were warm again.

I I thought of the changing season,

of the very quiet wind outside.

And how grateful I was

that my dog had taken me out into it.

This is a gift our friends give us.

They take us places we wouldn't go on our own

and show us things we'd have otherwise missed.

I took a slow breath

and turned on to one side,

tugging the quilt up over my shoulder.

I felt myself drifting towards sleep.

I pull some of today

into my dreams as I nodded off.

The squirrel

flicking her tail high in the tree.

The pull on the leash

as my dog had suddenly wanted to run.

The waxing moon

and the sleeping land.

The possibility of snow.

Yes, I was likely to be awakened again tomorrow night, and many nights after that.

But I was happy for it.

Sweet dreams.