Jack Fell Through The Table
So, we have this table outside on the back deck. It is old and has lichen on it, which makes me love it more.
We rarely use it.
We were sitting on the deck (not at the table) on Saturday and Jack the Puppy came bounding up the deck from the lawn and jumped onto the table.
One of us humans said, “Oh, no. That table is going to break.”
The other human said, “Jack! Get down!”
There was a great smashing and cracking noise and Jack fell directly through the table.
We gasped.
Jack, silent, rushed around the corner, head down and horrified. I flopped to the deck floor and put my arms out. He ran into them and snuggled as I checked for injuries.
Magically, he was completely fine.
The other dogs checked, too, which was lovely.
We got a new table.
This little story—of an old table, a bounding puppy, a dramatic crash, and a snuggle—isn’t just about canine chaos. It’s about the quiet comfort that shows up in moments of surprise and fear.
First, there's the comfort of the familiar: an old table, weathered and lichen-covered, a fixture in your life even if rarely used. It’s the kind of object that carries memory, patience, and presence. Even its breaking reminds us that the things we love most are not perfect or permanent—but they still serve a purpose.
Then there's Jack, who in a single joyful leap disrupts everything. The moment he crashes through the table, the comfort gets momentarily shattered. But what happens next is the heart of the Jack story, right?
It’s not blame, not chaos, but comfort. Again.
When we drop to the deck and open our arms, a Jack, shaken, still runs straight into them. That instinct—his to seek, ours to give—is what makes comforting powerful.
There’s something deeply reassuring in that. Life breaks things. Sometimes we leap where we shouldn’t. Sometimes we crash right through. But if we’re lucky, there’s someone there—human, dog, whoever—whose first instinct is to offer warmth and care.
And even the other dogs checked in. The pack showed up. No lectures. No punishment. Just a collective “are you okay?” followed by moving on, a new table, and a quiet reaffirmation that comfort isn’t just a feeling—it’s an action.
SOUP OF THE WEEK
Cookie and Kate have a very cool chickpea noodle soup recipe that I want to try.
WHAT TO PUT IN IT
“2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 medium yellow onion, chopped
1 cup thinly sliced celery (about 2 long stalks)
1 cup carrots, peeled and cut into thin rounds (2 medium or 4 small)
¼ teaspoon salt, more to taste
½ teaspoon ground turmeric
½ teaspoon curry powder (optional)
1 bay leaf
1 can chickpeas, rinsed and drained, or 1 ½ cups cooked chickpeas
8 ounces spiral pasta*
2 tablespoons chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley, plus extra for garnish
2 quarts (8 cups/64 ounces) vegetable broth
Freshly ground black pepper, to taste.”
HOW TO MAKE IT
“Warm the olive oil in a large Dutch oven or soup pot over medium heat. Once the oil is shimmering, add the onion, celery, carrots and ¼ teaspoon salt. Cook, stirring often, until the onions are turning translucent and softening, about 5 to 7 minutes.
“Add the turmeric and curry powder, if using, and stir constantly for about 30 seconds to wake up their flavors. Add the bay leaf, chickpeas, pasta, parsley and broth.
“Raise the heat to high and bring the mixture to a simmer, then reduce heat to medium-low and continue simmering until the pasta is pleasantly tender, about 10 to 20 minutes.
“Remove the pot from the heat and season generously with pepper. Add more salt, to taste, if necessary (I usually add another ¼ teaspoon). Serve while hot, with some extra parsley and pepper on top as garnish.
“Once cool, store the soup in the refrigerator, covered, for up to 5 days.”
If you visit the site, you can find a printable version.
THE POEM
Dog in Bed
By Joyce Sidman
Nose tucked under tail,
you are a warm, furred planet
centered in my bed.
All night I orbit, tangle-limbed,
in the slim space
allotted to me.
If I accidentally
bump you from sleep,
you shift, groan,
drape your chin on my hip.
O, that languid, movie-star drape!
I can never resist it.
Digging my fingers into your fur,
kneading,
I wonder:
How do you dream?
What do you adore?
Why should your black silk ears
feel like happiness?
This is how it is with love.
Once invited,
it steps in gently,
circles twice,
and takes up as much space
as you will give it.
Poem copyright ©2003 by Joyce Sidman. Poem reprinted from The World According to Dog, Houghton Mifflin, 2003.
BONUS COMFORT
Joyce’s website is here.
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