Sundays in my town are quiet. Very, very quiet. Disconcertingly quiet. It’s almost a relief to mow your lawn or have a barbeque, because everyone else is religiousing. (Not sure if that’s a word, but it works.)
Of course, Sundays are a really good day to take a walk. The only traffic is in and out of the local LDS Churches, and you could pretty much walk in the middle of the street and you’d be safe–except when church is getting out. Of course, since there is one (an LDS chapel)on every corner you still see a lot of cars in the “house” part of town. Downtown, of course, is abandoned. It’s very, very, quiet. This would be the time to pull off a crime. (Please note: I am NOT encouraging this!) But this would not be the first time that criminals got smart to the ways of the locals. When the entire neighborhood disappears inside a church en masse, all manner of burglaries have happened.
When walking on a Sunday, it’s very peaceful. Only at every twelfth or thirteenth house will you see signs of life, such as someone doing yardwork or straightening their garage.
Stormy the wonder dog likes walks on any day, and doesn’t seem to notice that Sunday is different, except no one else is out walking, and for the first time in his life, HE is the big dog on the block. On other days, he compensates by peeing on everything that stands taller than two inches, trying to prove his manliness through obsessive urination. On Sundays, convinced he IS the main man, he also pees on everything taller than two inches. I do not know how such a small dog has so much urine in him. He pees like a drunken sailor on shore leave. It’s perplexing.
It slows our walks down, but that’s okay. On a day like today, with the leaves beginning to change in the Wasatch Mountains, it’s nice to saunter a bit and relax.