It was a special day; Sabina and I mark one of myriad anniversaries. I was going to throw together a little chicken paprikash for supper, just because. The next time the sun rises, we'll go on a road daytrip with a picnic. It's been a bit since we've done that, the picnic aspect, that is.
It was a special day; he'd not gone walking with me in a bit. Gone are the days when Whistler could bushwhack up a twelve-thousand foot peak with me, and then, the next day, when I could barely walk, he'd herd-chomp at my ankles, wanting to know what the day's new adventure was. These days, two years later, a mile is an effort. What a drag it is getting old.
It was just the Bull's Head in this late spring mush that got the Rockies to make national news-ya'll do know it can snow here at any time of year, riiiiiiiiiiiiight? Whistler made a brave show of it. This part of the valley, in most places, seems the steepest. Even at a quarter mile, he was showing signs of fatigue. I did my best to encourage him. He did his best to keep up with me on my long shanks.
There's a point, after the ruins of the Diamond Mine, I am scrambling along terraced levels to another set of ruins, before coming out at the far east end of town. A residual of his IVS, when he gets tired, his equilibrium gets screwy. Even at the drop-offs by the Diamond, I had him on a leash, as to help prevent him pitching off the edge of the tailings. We reached the intersection with the 730 and headed home. I didn't do my usual loop, but that was fine. The two of us got to walk together, and that's becoming increasingly rare.
"Thank you for the company, lo jen" I said to Whistler as he achingly followed me home. "It was, as always, lovely."