The thinnest veil of frost covered the grass, sparkling like silver sequins in the early morning sunlight. Skim ice coated shallow puddles and patches of snow remained in spots shaded by spruce and cedar trees. Crows heckled us as we briskly took our morning walk on a deserted golf course by the bay. It was Sunday, so no hunters were about, just lobstermen taking advantage of a fine trap day with temperatures mild and a soft breeze that merely tickled the chin.

A lone loon called from somewhere, and the pups froze in their tracks – long brown ears perked, shiny heads tilted in a question mark. As quickly as they stopped, they once again bolted, this time running up the fairway, cutting to the dirt path, disappearing into the woods, then stopping at a narrow stream for a few quick gulps.

Laughing to myself as I watched their antics, I quickened my own pace to keep them in view. Occasionally, I whistled to bring them back around for a treat – and a pat – as we meandered over the course and down to the shore.

“Teach us Delight in simple things,” wrote Rudyard Kipling, and I couldn’t agree more.

Delight was spread across my face like marmalade on a beaten biscuit. What pleasure, to watch the young dogs play tug with a large piece of bark till it crumbled into a pile of pieces they then ignored; or to stand in suspense as the pups gathered their nerves to leap over what could not have been more than a foot-wide stream. One of them barked at the strange gurgling sound the creek made against the rocks.

Talk about a startling sound. When they inadvertently flushed three partridges in a stand of woods, the pups let out a whelp no louder than my own. Then we huddled round each other for comfort before moving on; I walked the gravel paths while they investigated everything from blow-downs to dirt mounds.

The rhythm of our walk wasn’t necessarily smooth; it went more in fits and starts, with the pups sniffing and lingering, with them darting yonder and gone, with them chasing each other in circles. With them eating the snow in the ditch, with them tackling and rolling, with them sitting and scratching … and squatting.

That was exactly what Alice Roosevelt Longworth meant when she said: “I have a simple philosophy. Fill what’s empty. Empty what’s full. Scratch where it itches.”

On our return from the golf course, over the paths toward the car, I found myself laughing again. One pup proudly carried a stick as though it were an Olympics torch; the other one wore a beard of wet reindeer moss. All three of us were tired from the jaunt, but I stopped down the road long enough to snip some thorny rose hips, and once we got home, gathered a bagful of brush for a wreath. Their paws were muddy; my hands looked and smelled of pitch.

It had been a simple joy, the Sunday walk with two Labs – one, the color of cocoa, the other, molasses. And it reminded me to fully appreciate the other pure offerings that bring me happiness.

This week I intend to give thanks for being able to delight in simple things.

“Our life is frittered away by detail,” said Thoreau; “Simplify, simplify.”