Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Dog Days Of Summer (Encore)

Episode Date: August 1, 2024

Originally Aired: August 11th, 2019 (Season 9, Episode 8) Our story tonight is called The Dog Days of Summer, and it’s a story about a day with a best friend. It’s also about a cucumber picked from the garden, meeting friends in the park, the most important lessons we learn from the animals we share our lives with. So get cozy and ready to sleep.Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We are bringing you an encore episode tonight, meaning that this story originally aired at some point in the past.

It could have been recorded with different equipment in a different location. And since I'm a person and not a computer, I sometimes sound just slightly different. But the stories are always soothing and family-friendly, and our wishes for you are always deep rest and sweet dreams. Now let me say a little about how this podcast works. I have a story to tell you, and that story will become a soft nest to lay your mind in for the night, both as you fall asleep and if you need to return to sleep later. Just follow along with the sound of my voice and the simple details of the story. Let it be like a lullaby for your thinking mind. As it's rocked to sleep, your whole body will become heavy and relaxed. And before

you know it, you'll be waking up tomorrow, feeling ready to go. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake in the night, you could listen again or just think back through the shape of the story. Anything that you can remember and you'll go right back to sleep. With this technique, we are conditioning your nervous system to respond in a particular way. And the more you do it, the better your sleep will get.

Our story tonight is called The Dog Days of Summer. And it's a story about a day with a best friend. It's also about a cucumber picked fresh from the garden, meeting friends in the park, and the most important lessons we learn from the animals we share our lives with. Now, turn off your light. Arrange your pillows just so. Pull the comforter over your shoulder and let your whole body settle. Sometimes it helps to say to yourself, I'm about to go to sleep,

and I'll sleep deeply all through the night. Let's take a deep breath in through the nose, and out through the mouth. Nice. Let's do that one more time. Breathe in and out. Good. The dog days of summer.

We'd woken nose to nose, as usual. We'd laid still for a while, blinking at each other, shifting out of the last dream of the morning, and listening to the birds singing in the branches. Then, she started to wag her tail, happy, energetic thumps that shook the bed,

and I couldn't help but laugh. My dog wakes up happy every day. Every day she starts off giddy and excited, and today she had every right to be. I was all hers, and we had plans to do some favorite things. She jumped out of bed, and I followed, still a little sleepy, rubbing my eyes and taking deep breaths of morning air.

We stepped outside together, and while she nosed through the grass and attended to her morning toilette, I stood and just looked into the branches of the oak trees. Squirrels were tracing roots through the limbs, carrying breakfast in their bulging cheeks. Robins and one tall blue jay were flitting about in the leaves. Morning business. I stooped near the edge of the vegetable patch to absentmindedly pull a few stray weeds from around my tomato plants.

The grass was dewy, it felt cool on my feet, and the plants sparkled with it. I lifted a broad prickly leaf in the garden and found under it a perfect cucumber, which I twisted off the vine. I stood and took a lungful of that humid summer morning air that smells so richly of green growing things and lush black earth. Have you ever been carried away, back in time by ascent. I remembered in an instant a camping trip when I was a child. Maybe I was five or six. We'd stayed in a tiny cabin

and cooked outside as the sun set. My father had entertained us with a story he'd started on the first night, and added on to each evening, with twists and turns. Bandits and princesses and buried treasure. I thought of the good dogs we'd had as I was growing up. They'd taught me as a child how to be gentle, how to play, and the goodness that comes from caring for someone else. I smiled, remembering, and patted my hand against my thigh to call my dog to me.

She padded over, nose damp from poking through the dewy plants, and sniffed at the vegetables I'd picked. Breakfast, then? I asked. She ran for the door. This was part of our routine each morning. When we come back in from the garden, she races as fast as she can to the kitchen and sits, tail drumming against the cabinet for her treat. When I first brought her home, and we were still getting to know each other, I used to just hand it to her, and she would politely take it and carry it under the kitchen table to eat. But after a few weeks,

when she'd gotten more comfortable and was letting me see more of who she was, she would take the treat and try to toss it to herself in the air. I imagined she was trying to teach me, to show me that even a snack could be fun. Everything could be play. And she trained me well. So when I caught up with her in the kitchen and asked her if she was sure she wanted a treat,

here there was more tail thumping and her eyes opened as wide as they could. I took a biscuit from her jar on the counter and darting my hand left and right, sent her in excited circles. Finally, I tossed it into the air, and she expertly clicked her teeth around it. Right, I said, patting her head and turning to the coffee pot. Let's see about today. I made my coffee, filled her bowl with kibble, and dropped a couple slices of seedy bread into the toaster.

I sliced my cucumber, and when the toast popped up, I spread it thickly with hummus. I layered on the cucumber, sprinkled on salt and pepper, and some sprouts from a jar on the windowsill. My girl was crunching away, and I dropped into the chair closest to her so we could breakfast together. In between bites, I said casually, So, I was thinking, Dog park? She stopped, her mouth full, and looked at me, not sure if she'd heard me right.

I said it again. Dog park? She jumped. She danced. She wriggled up beside me to have her back scratched and patted. When dogs are happy, their instinct is to share it. For me, this is proof enough that the universe bends toward kindness.

Now that the words had been spoken, she was eager to go. Another lesson from her to me. When you know what you want, go get it. We got dressed, me in shorts and sandals, her in her harness and neckerchief, which proclaimed,

if her goofy smile wasn't enough to do so, that she was happy to be petted. I jingled the keys and we raced to the car. I rolled down her window so that she could feel the wind in her ears and smell all the good scents of the neighborhood. Soon we were turning into the gravel lot beside the park, and I watched her dipping her head eagerly side to side, looking between the trees, trying to see through the fence who was here today.

Old buddies? New friends? Inside, off her leash, she dashed about, sniffing at the other dogs, barking and bowing to get a game going. There were a few old-timers with sweet white faces laying about and watching the younger ones chase. There were scrappy little dogs bossing the group and running fast on stilty legs.

Fluffy, slower dogs dipping back and forth between the play and the comfort of mom or dad's ankles. I sat on a bench in a shady corner and watched them all. It made my heart shine to see my girl confident and comfortable. At ease in her life.

She was already a few years old when she'd come to live with me, and I remembered her uncertain face on the drive home from the shelter. I told her that her last bad day was yesterday, that from now on she was safe, and her whole life would be about play and naps and walks and whatever else she liked. But that's something you have to show, not tell. By now, I'd shown her.

And she trusted me. The games were winding down. The doggies were getting pleasantly worn out, and leashes were clicked onto collars. My girl found me, and I poured the water from my bottle into a bowl I'd brought. She took a good long drink, and we got back in the car. I wanted to treat her all day so I thought next we'd stop by her favorite pet shop and pick out a new toy

then later a long walk and a nap on the shady back porch after dinner I'd throw her ball for her until she got tired and I wouldn't make her have a bath till tomorrow. Eventually we'd climb back into bed. She'd turn around three times, plop down,

and let out that little doggy huff and we would sleep. The dog days of summer. We'd woken nose to nose, as usual. We'd laid still for a while, blinking at each other, shifting out of the last dream of the morning, and listening to the birds singing in the branches. Then she started to wag her tail. Happy, energetic thumps that shook the bed, and I couldn't help but laugh. My dog wakes up happy every day. Every day, she starts off giddy and excited.

And today, she had every right to be. I was all hers. And we had plans to do some favorite things. She jumped out of bed, and I followed, still a little sleepy, rubbing my eyes and taking deep breaths of morning air. We stepped out together, and while she nosed through the grass and attended to her morning toilette, I stood and just looked into the branches of the oak trees. Squirrels were tracing roots through the limbs, carrying breakfast in their bulging cheeks. Robins and one tall blue jay were flitting about in the leaves. Morning business. I stooped near the edge of the vegetable patch

to absentmindedly pull a few stray weeds from around my tomato plants. The grass was dewy. It felt cool on my feet, and the plants sparkled with it. I lifted a broad, prickly leaf in the garden and found under it a perfect cucumber, which I twisted off the vine.

I stood and took a lungful of that humid summer morning air that smells so richly of green growing things and lush black earth. Have you ever been carried away, back in time, by a scent? I remembered in an instant a camping trip when I was a child. Maybe I was five or six.

We'd stayed in a tiny cabin and cooked outside as the sun set. My father had entertained us with a story he'd started on the first night and added on to each evening, with twists and turns, bandits and princesses, and buried treasure. I thought of the good dogs we'd had as I was growing up.

They'd taught me as a child how to be gentle, how to play, and the goodness that comes from caring for someone else. I smiled, remembering, and patted my hand against my thigh to call my dog to me. She patted over, nose damp from poking through the dewy plants, and sniffed at the vegetables I'd picked. Breakfast, then? I asked. She ran for the door. This is part of our routine each morning. When we come back in from the garden, she races as fast as she can

to the kitchen and sits, tail drumming against the cabinet for her treat. When I first brought her home and we were still getting to know each other, I used to just hand it to her, and she would politely take it and carry it under the kitchen table to eat. But after a few weeks, when she'd gotten more comfortable and was letting me see more of who she was. She would take the treat and try to toss it to herself in the air.

I imagine she was trying to teach me, to show me, that even a snack could be fun. Everything could be play. And she trained me well. So when I caught up with her in the kitchen and asked her if she was sure she wanted a treat, here there was more tail thumping, and her eyes opened as wide

as they could. I took a biscuit from her jar on the counter, and darting my hand left and right, sent her in excited circles. Finally, I tossed it into the air, and she expertly clicked her teeth around it. Right, I said, patting her head and turning to the coffee pot. Let's see about today. I made my coffee, filled her bowl with kibble, and dropped a couple slices of seedy bread into the toaster. I sliced my cucumber, and when the toast popped up, I spread it thickly with hummus. I layered on the cucumber, sprinkled on salt and pepper, and some sprouts from a jar on the windowsill. My girl was crunching away,

and I dropped into the chair closest to her so we could breakfast together. In between bites, I said casually, so I was thinking, dog park? She stopped with her mouth full and looked at me, not sure if she'd heard me right. I said it again. Dog park? She jumped. She danced. She wriggled up beside me to have her back scratched and patted.

When dogs are happy, their instinct is to share it. For me, this is proof enough that the universe bends toward kindness. Now that the words had been spoken she was eager to go another lesson from her to me when you know what you want go get it

we got dressed me in shorts and sandals her in her harness and neckerchief which proclaimed if her goofy smile wasn't enough to do so that she was happy to be petted I jingled the keys and we raced to the car. I rolled down her window enough,

so that she could feel the wind in her ears, and smell all the good scents of the neighborhood. Soon, we were turning into the gravel lot beside the park, and I watched her dipping her head eagerly side to side, looking through the trees, trying to see through the fence who was here today. Old buddies? New friends? Inside, off her leash, she dashed about, sniffing at the other dogs, barking and bowing to get a game going. There were a few old-timers with sweet white faces laying about

and watching the younger ones chase. There were scrappy little dogs bossing the group and running fast on stilty legs. Fluffy, slower dogs, dipping back and forth between the play and the comfort of mom or dad's ankles. I sat on a bench in a shady corner and watched them all. It made my heart shine to see my girl confident, uncomfortable, at ease in her life.

She was already a few years old when she came to live with me, and I remembered her uncertain face on the drive home from the shelter. I told her that her last bad day was yesterday. That from now on she was safe, and her whole life would be about play, and naps, and walks, and whatever else she liked. But that's something you have to show, not tell. By now, I'd shown her, and she trusted me. The games were winding down. The doggies were getting pleasantly worn out, and leashes were clicked onto collars.

My girl found me, and I poured the water from my bottle into a bowl I'd brought. She took a good long drink and we got back in the car. I wanted to treat her all day so I thought next we'd stop by her favorite pet shop and pick out a new toy.

Then later, a long walk, and a nap on the shady back porch. After dinner, I'd throw her ball for her until she got tired, and I wouldn't make her take a bath till tomorrow. Eventually, we'd climb back into bed. She'd turn around three times, plop down, and let out that little doggy, and we would sleep. Sweet dreams.