A mini flash back to the winter of this year.

The Dogbomb stands on a semi-deserted beach,
watching a lone surfer fight the down shore current.
Back then I wrote how I wished it was summer.
The temps were hovering in the low 50s and the water was too
cold for old dogs to take a dip. It seemed the sun was in
the sky for a meager few hours a day.

Now it's the crescendo of summer. The beach is crammed with tourists,
a free wave can't be found to save your hide and the fursuiting is
not for wimps. It takes twice the stamina to suit in July vs. January.

I was chatting with my sheppmuttnutbutt last night when I realized:
I've been furry for one full year now. Of course, I've been furry all my
life, but I became aware of you lunatics in July of 2009. I thought
back on the preceding year as I drifted off to sleep and felt nostalgic.
I remembered the first time I suited, the first con I went to, and the first time I tried to explain why I was dressed as a giant dog to a confused
human on an elevator.

This morning it hit me. We spend an undue amount of effort wishing that
we were somewhere else, doing something else with someone else.
True, there are moments that are golden, and you want them in
perpetuity, but those are few and far between.
It seems that in a perfect world, we would be granted the clarity
to count our blessings minute by minute. The majority of our time
would be better spent in appreciation of all that we have, instead of
grousing about what we are lacking.

So I'll work on that today. The sun is up. Life is for living.
I will celebrate the amazing gifts that I have been given.

A year of being furry. A year of making wonderful friends and
expanding my horizons. A year of coughing up furballs every
morning.

Count your blessings, my friends.