When Jack and I gallivant around the neighborhood, we make the most of every sight, sound, and odor. The place we live can be a delight if only we notice. Jack’s favorite scent is poop, and mine is the neighbor’s orange tree; the blossoms remind me of the rotten orange fights I had with my brothers in the orange groves back home. Oh, the nostalgia.

Our recent walks have brought to us the beauty of running water, the likes of which could rival that of a national park, or not, but we liked it. We watched a city worker testing the fire hydrants with great curiosity. He twisted the top with the big tool thingy, and massive amounts of water gushed out powerfully and sparkly. It rushed down the gutter with a sound as impressive as a mountain waterfall. Jack and I ran after it. When it reached the storm drain, down it went, echoing into the cement drainage ditch at the bottom of the hill. We, like little children, poked our heads through the fence and watched the torrent splash against the walls. Jack looked at me, and I swear he said, “That’s pretty cool, huh?”

A few blocks away, we cut across the “green belt” on the horse trail. Gardeners were testing the sprinkler system. Apparently, it was testing day. The water gurgled through the ruts and over the rocks of the dirt trail, rivalling the loveliness of any meadow brook. Jack slowed his pace and trotted along side, his nose sniffing at the water. Little birds added their tweets and twitters to the music as they dove in for a quick drink.

Thoreau needed Walden Pond for his nature “fix”. For Jack and me, sometimes, suburbia is enough.