It looked like a rather blustery day today.
That’s how it felt — blustery in the air, blustery in the world, blustery in the mind. Still, I felt the urge to move.
G: “Should we go out on our walk?”
J: “But it looks like a rather blustery day today.”
G: “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s just stay hunkered down.”
Time passed in silence as we stared at our phones.
J: “Did you see what CNN just reported? Everything I read is depressing. Let’s go on our walk.”
G: “But it looks like a rather blustery day today.”
J: “It’s 35 degrees with 20–30 mile‑an‑hour winds. Yes, it’s too blustery to be outside.”
More time passed. The gloom thickened.
G: “Maybe we should just go on a walk.”
J: “But it looks like a rather blustery day today.”
G: “Okay, forget it.”
And then, after another long stretch of nothing:
J: “Are you ready?”
She stood there zipped into her warmest jacket, determined.
G: “Okay. Let’s do it.”
We stepped out into the wind — me looking like an Eskimo with a fur‑lined hood swallowing my face, J looking peculiarly like a Jane Curtin cone‑head thanks to the tassel on her stocking cap pushing her hood into a perfect point.
The wind was sharp but manageable as we began our usual loop around the circle of townhomes. We’ve lived here two and a half years now, after moving from New Mexico to be closer to our grandchildren. Whenever we mention our New Mexico roots, the next question is always the same: “New Mexico! Why move to Philadelphia?” And our answer is always the same: “Grandchildren.” That single word ends the conversation every time.
Those weekly breakfasts with them — the planning, the cooking, the small rituals — keep us tethered. Without them, it would be too easy to sink into the steady drip of bad news, health worries, and the quiet fear that maybe this is all there is.
Today, though, even the thought of them couldn’t quite cut through the heaviness. The walk felt like another item on the list. Another thing to push through. Another reminder that the world is, in fact, rather blustery these days.
And then we saw her.
Oona.
A young, spirited Goldendoodle with gangly legs, a trimmed coat, and a long, fluffy tail. She had stayed with us for two weeks while her family was away, and we had grown to love her unfiltered joy. Since Chaco passed, the house has felt emptier than we expected. Oona had filled some of that space.
Her owner was outside with her for a quick bathroom break — the kind of “quickie” every dog owner knows, when the weather is miserable and the goal is efficiency. But the moment Oona saw us, all thoughts of efficiency vanished. She leapt, twisted, strained at the leash, desperate to reach us. Pure, unrestrained joy.
Her owner tried to rein her in, apologizing, but Oona was having none of it. Finally, I said, “We’re dressed for the weather. Let her come with us.”
And just like that, the three of us set off — Oona darting between sniffing every blade of grass and circling back to shower us with hugs and kisses. Her joy was so complete, so unfiltered, that it cut through everything. The wind didn’t matter. The news didn’t matter. The heaviness didn’t matter.
For a few minutes, the world was simple again.
And here’s the thing:
It wasn’t fluff. It was fuel.
In a time as blustery as this — politically, socially, emotionally — it’s easy to believe that only the big things matter. The protests. The votes. The crises. The endless trench work of trying to hold a country together.
But the truth is quieter.
The smallest joys are not distractions from the storm.
They are what keep us human inside it.
They are what keep us from going numb.
They are what keep us from giving up.
They are what remind us what — and who — we’re fighting for.
Winnie the Pooh said it best:
“Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.”
On a rather blustery day, a dog named Oona did exactly that.