6,387 steps around the lake, back gate to and from, two
black dogs leading the way.
Wild Iris demand attention, spawning frequent pockets of
brilliant fire. I know to never pick them; they wilt to nothing in a vase,
reminding me to appreciate their beauty without trying to own it.
We headed down to the spot where Rufus apparently has a
commode, hidden deep in brush where only he can go. He burrows in, stops
rustling, and comes back out wagging his tail, feeling lighter and more eager
to go.
Walking down the path briskly, Ibis ran safely ahead, Chica
pulling to catch up.
Pausing at the old Cedar, sun bleached silver white,
unchanged since our first introduction, we listened carefully for the
jabber of two daughters who dangled like simian acrobats from those branches 25
years ago.
We passed by the dog swimming beach as we cut through the
park behind our house. I couldn’t help but remember how Sasha loved to
dive in after a stick or ball. Her vision was poor so one time she thought a
small alligator was her stick. Those two did a circle dance for ten minutes,
she looking for her stick to resurface as the gator dodged the crazy canine,
before she finally complied with my shouts to come back in.
Meanwhile, Kira bathed slowly, regal and above the chaos of
mere dogs. They never failed to disgust her.I miss that good girl so much.
These days, Rufus wades like a hippo, dancing along the
shoreline, appreciating the flotation her extra weight affords. Chica swims in
the same frantic circles she makes on the oriental rug at home, while trying to
catch her own tail.
Life is a bit like that too, so I understand.
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