Spring has officially arrived, and Luke is feeling it.

He announces the season with bold grandeur—shedding the cocoon of his blankets and bursting into the yard as if he’s been personally invited by the sun. Within seconds, he’s airborne in spirit if not in fact, tearing across the grass with the unmistakable swagger of James Brown.

“I feel good,” I imagine him singing. “You knew that I would.”

He tests the edges of the yard like a seasoned explorer, sprinting just shy of the boundary line, flirting with freedom but never quite crossing it. And just when I think he’s finished, he doubles back for more.

“Excuse me while I christen the grass with my extraordinary scent.”

He lowers his head to the grass and smears the grass with the side of his face. The result is equal parts impressive and foolish. Then he shakes the earth from his head and stares up at me. “Need something?” 

“Luke,” I answer with a jangle of his leash. “Let’s go for a walk.”

He stops instantly. For a brief, hopeful second, I think I’ve won. Then his eyes narrow with the defiance of a confident Golden.

“Freedom!”

Aretha Franklin channels in.

He darts toward the far edge of the yard and reappears with a Frisbee clamped triumphantly in his mouth.

“You’d rather play?” I try. “Okay. Drop it for mummy to throw.”

Somewhere in the background of my mind, my to-do list flickers to life—emails unanswered, errands undone, the quiet pressure of a day already spoken for. Time, suddenly, feels accounted for.

“I dare you,” Luke seems to reply, leaning just out of reach.

My lower back offers another perspective. Enough of this. You’re too darn old.

“Mummy’s not going to play if you can’t drop it,” I tell him, extending an arm for a final scoop. “Give me the Frisbee, please.”

He considers my tone. Then, with perfect comedic timing, turns his head away.

Negotiations have ended.

I know this game—tug-of-war, keep-away, a test of endurance I didn’t sign up for today. I do the practical thing. I go inside.

From the bay window, I watch him. At first, he pauses, as if registering my absence. But it doesn’t take long. He lowers the Frisbee, paws at it, flips it, digs around it—transforming a nine-dollar toy into an entire universe of possibility. A new game blooms like a June rose. The writer in me considers potential titles: Bury-and-rescue? The improvisation of Joy? 

Clearly, he doesn’t need me for this game.

And yet.

Standing there, separated by glass and intention, I feel the small, unmistakable weight of the choice I’ve made. Independence is a good thing—his and mine. The list matters. The day moves forward whether I join him or not.

But watching him—fully absorbed, wholly present, asking nothing more of the moment than to live inside it—I begin to question my math.

Of all the tasks waiting for me, none feel quite as immediate as the one I declined.

The list will still be there when I return.

But this version of Luke—the one who believes spring is something to celebrate at full speed—won’t wait forever.

I step back outside, take the Frisbee from his eager mouth, and send it sailing—watching it rise and arc through the open air like a small, bright permission slip, reminding me that sometimes the highest things we throw are the moments we choose to keep.

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