On the grounds of Blarney Castle sit the most amazing trees. Sigh. Yes, yes, Blarney Castle, I know, I know. Total tourist trap, shameful that we take our students there on what are supposed to be serious study trips but hey, the Young Ones demand it; they really truly want to kiss the Blarney Stone and, as a Young One sternly said to me, "Sometimes it's really fun to be a tacky tourist." And if you turn your back on the castle and head out into the grounds, the trees make the otherwise ridiculous Blarney admission price worth every cent. Centuries old with enormous trunks and limbs polished smooth and hard by wind and rain, these trees tower above and yet intertwine with and spread themselves all about the surrounding boulder-strewn hills and cliffs, so that rock and tree and sky blend into one.
I thought of those trees when I came home after five weeks abroad and discovered that my dog had shrunk.
Why is it that old age so diminishes us ambulatory creatures? Experiences and efforts accumulate; pains and pleasures pile up; we dwindle. My poor, pitiful dog.
Not that he sees it this way. Let loose amidst the Blarney trees, he'd just pee on them and amble off to resume his endless quest for a chicken bone.
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