Atop the Bull's Head

I sat atop the Bull's Head under a big turquoise sky, contemplating emptiness and everything. Next to me was Whistler, enjoying the bits of apple I tossed him to snack on, his own treats already consumed. I was much more contemplative.

I am presently in the bardo between motorized vehicles. Muses of what to make for dinner, and, more immediately, lunch equated to the mathematics of my thoughts. Lazy mental meanderings, much as part of the walkabout had been a physical one.

There was a slight bite to the autumn breeze, but, as always, the views were magnificent. Someone once told me there were those who became complacent living in the mountains. I offered to hunt those poor souls down and administer euthanasias. After all, I am a big believer in euthanasia, as well as youth in Africa and other places of the world.

The youth are our future are they not?

I could say I'd not a care in the world, but that would've been a lie. Whistler, sitting so companionably beside me with a shared apple, had difficulties reaching the the top of the Bull's Head with me. In fact, I had to carry him up the rocky natural steps. I noticed how he occasionally lagged a little further behind me as we walked the trail.

Were I to anthropomorphize, I would say his canid gaze carried a bit of an apology. That he was reminding me he is nearly fourteen years old. Twice my chronological age in his lifespan. An active senior.

I am the one who refuses to age any further. To get old. Over and done with that noise, I say. Whether or not one of my favorite walkabout companions can achieve the same feat is another proposition. With a resigned sigh, I sat back, scritching Whistler behind the ears as we finished the apple. I couldn't help but wonder if this time atop the Bull's Head might be one of our last.