Our Dog Mercy

She has a need to be alone. It is her primal nature, for she was bred in the north, Calgary, where the cold wind blows. She was meant to stay in solitude for hours in small spaces and to keep quiet, the perfect condominium animal, bred over twenty generations for solitude and minimal barking. Keeping still and silent is necessary for some animals, the owl, the snake, the wolf. Now it is in her genetic makeup as well.

In her essence: a she-wolf. She observes, focuses, and is a watchful waiter when human food is being consumed. Patient, patiently watching and waiting until that last bite, knowing it is saved for her,  is gratefully taken with intense poise into her gentle mouth. It is almost a kiss she gives when taking her small treat. Her mustache is smoothed down with a light human touch, and she is told she is loved.

This is her day: a short walk led by the man of the house, a bit of play time, kibble and water, and then sleep. For sleep consumes the majority of her day. Snuggling down into the pillows on the bed, uncovering the bolster if necessary in order to reach her master's down pillow, her favorite, she takes time to make her day nest. Here she will stay for hours, only nature's call for elimination of fluid urging her out of this nest that only she inhabits. The others in the house, her sister animal friend and the humans, do not inhabit this space of hers called the peoples' bedroom. Those others stay in their own dens doing whatever it is they do during the daytime hours...reading, knitting, cooking, talking. But here, on this bed and on the once forbidden pillow, she stays.

Occasionally, when dreaming, a slight whimper will come from deep within her throat. It is not unlikely that she yelps. Perhaps a play date with her sister dog is in her dreams, or maybe it is one of those pesky UPS men ringing the doorbell and making her jump to attention, shaking her from that sleepy lethargy. Whatever the cause, those yips and slight low growls sometimes can be heard from farther rooms when she is deep in slumber. Her distant presence is made known.

Now the night comes. The people in the house retire to this, her place, at night. At first she welcomes them, and snuggles down, this time at the foot of the bed, into the old down comforter throw that is kept just for her, although the feathers are slowing disengaging from the seams, and little white fluffs can be found on the bedspread beneath her silky throne. With the lights off, now surrounded by these human masters of her universe, she again settles and sleeps.

After two or three hours of this nighttime darkness, she awakens and feels the presence of the humans and realizes she is, indeed, not alone. She jumps from her downy nest on to the wooden floor, her toenails making a soft, padded sound. She yips, awakening her masters. They interpret the yipping noise to mean that she wants out to pee, and the one called Gene cooperates, reaching for his flashlight at the headboard of the bed, pulling himself up and out of slumber, releasing her out into the cold night air. Upon command, she performs her duty, and both the human and she return into the room.

Circling round just the right number of times, she replaces herself on the nest. She again sleeps. But I often wonder if what this canine really craves is to be alone, again, on the bed she calls her own. Sometimes, when the owners correctly interpret throaty call, her name is sternly called out in the darkness to return to bed. Reluctantly, she comes back to her rumpled place at my feet. Perhaps she woke to realize she has others in her space. Her primal need was again calling her to solitude.  All she really craved was to be alone.

Redstone, Colorado in Winter

There was yoga (Susan, our esteemed teacher practitioner)

At the ice skating rink, skates ready for fun

 Chrome Hubcap Sculpture in front of Redstone Inn (by O. Louis Wille, obituary here)

A few of the group

Initial Writing Exercise

Directives given in first assignment:

Think of an object

What is its shape?  What is its texture? What color is it?  What does the object evoke in you?

Write about this object.  Timed for thirty minutes maximum.

Green Man on the Shed Door

He lives on in the cold January exterior.  His face is a yard wide, painted on rough cedar planking in acrylics of burnt sienna, thalo green, color of lemons and limes interwoven in the giant leaves of his face.  Stark black outlines his wreath of greenery making up his features.  Green Man's wide mouth, though worn down and made more faint by five harsh summer sunbeams and the like number of winters and cold rains coming down on his weathered cheeks, is nonetheless visible in a malevolent moue. His brows are painted veins of leaves twined between foliage.

Frozen boards below him are stiff with winter chill and the skiff of ice on the shed entranceway gives warning of careful entry into his kingdom of plastic chairs and worn pots.  He guards entrance to the lawnmower, now stiff from disuse, with his silent stare.  Guardian of the tool shed, he is a symbol of earth, of all things green and growing.  He is a mystical creature, a keen observer of creatures moving in the garden, animals gambling on the lawn.  In day, his countenance is obvious, but at night, he keeps close count of stealthy foxes and raccoons, always on the lookout for night creatures of mice skittering through tall buffalo grass.

The Green Man smiles, at least his painted-on moue perhaps grimaces at some unknown secret not yet revealed.  Maybe he is contemplating his future of soon-to-be warm days when perhaps yet even more undiscovered observations will occur under his benevolent, hooded eyes.

Is that smile on his face?  Or maybe it is I who sees a generous future harvest of wild flowers, showy zinnias, blue iris, herbs, all welcoming a much anticipated spring, and his face is reflecting my wishful gardening thoughts.