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.
I wanted to write something meaningful about our animal children, the love we share--but then I looked down at my boy Ozzy, nearly ten now, taking his afternoon nap next to my chair, and my heart cracked at the thought he won't always be there. Dammit Robbie...
ReplyDeleteYeh, it sucks, a lot, that's for sure. Whistler's still got some life left in him, I think. But, like Chevy-whose rather arthritic these days-I wonder if his trekking days are nearing an end.
DeleteI know how much loosing someone close to you hurts. It doesn't matter if that's a person or an animal, it hurts like hell, either way.
ReplyDeleteThat's true. Although, in this context, right now at least, I'm only losing him on the trails.
Deletehaha, Robbie, euthanasia. That was as funny as my two black eyes joke...
ReplyDeleteIt was a right rib-tickler.
DeleteLovely piece. The sentence about being "complacent living in the mountains" resonates strongly with me. I'm sure that I should have been a mountain dweller.
ReplyDeleteThank you. Of course, it's never too late to head for the hills.
DeleteYou discuss a sadness with eloquent beauty. But still, there is sorrow. Perhaps it's time for Whistler to trade in the traveling shoes for long warm nights by the fire...with good company.
ReplyDeleteDo they make whiskey for dogs?
I've come to realize that. I still have Milarepa for my walkabouts, although, she's still young and spazzy. I wish they did make canid whiskey, then he and I could contemplate libations together by the fire.
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