If I were an artist, I would paint a picture of this hollow as it looked this morning...muted greens and browns along the road where the mists and shadows of night still lingered...blazing golds and reds in the treetops and hillsides basking in the fresh sunshine....Max, Charly and Frankie making their way along the caliche road that stretches out before me, that rises, twists and turns like a child's roller coaster ride before disappearing into a distant haze at the base of a hill...the pink blush on the horizon melting into a cloudless Easter blue sky above it all...
No photograph of mine could do it justice. But then, even a painting couldn't capture the cool breeze, the songs of the morning birds, the quiet plodding of our feet on the wet caliche, Charly's panting, Max's warning barks at imagined dangers, Frankie's excited twitter and inquisitive trills.
Our walks are taking longer and longer. I made the mistake yesterday of leaving it last, so when Max and Charly disappeared up a hill at the bend, I was agitated, knowing they were going to make me run even later than usual to work.
Max returned when I called, but not Charly. He played the 'deaf old man' card and kept plodding deeper into the woods. Dang old dog. I stepped across the little stream and into the woods after him, emerging a few minutes later at the little pond nestled at the bases of converging hills. It was beautiful. I was still anxious to get back, but at the same time, I was grateful to the old fart for leading me off the usual path and experiencing something different.
And how could I begrudge him a little adventure? We should all hope for at least one adventure a day. So this morning our walk came before writing and when Max and Charly clambered up a small steep hill on another little adventure, I didn't call them back. I figured if Charly had the gumption to tackle it (it was a pretty steep climb and he had to work at it), who was I to hold him back?
That old dog just keeps teaching me.
