6.19.13 RiverLove

 Bundling impatient dogs into the car, we head the few miles down to the river,

 passing by a local farmer’s field, where everything glistens from last night’s sprinkling. 

With all the  recent rain, the path today is deliciously muddy and sloppy, 

the old dog not finding this useful, the young one completely delighted.

In the meantime, the waters are full of debris washed away from the rains, logs 

and branches, some trees across the way actually downed. 

If you look closely, there is another group of fishlings making their way downstream, their small mouths gobbling evening insects that conveniently cluster just above the water, small circlets, thousands, as the swift current carries them away. How many creatures here depend upon mosquitoes and other less than desirable insects for their very survival.

This is what snuffling officially looks like, being a major occupation of when you are canine and almost 16. Snuffling involves training your person to accept that they are no longer at any  helm as far as you are concerned, and to patiently follow their every single desire. Walk here. Stop here. So they get the first go at a walk, devoid of annoying 3 month old pups, a moment of peace and quiet and self-determination, as people pass by, ask her age, (almost 16) ask if she can see ( mostly no) hear (not that well) smell- a champion.

 Tonight, asleep on her (our) her bed, she smelled most probably a bear going by, as it was a 3 alarm dog alert- up and barking and the whole ruff up, head to tail, as the pup watched and listened and learned, sniffing the air expectantly. So yeah, smell. Hence, the pleasure of…river snuffling. Up northerly is my office, where i can wander outside after work, and slip down the old hidden wood staircase to the river’s sharp curve, and stand watching the branches trailing in the current, the calls of those who spend their lives on the riverbanks.

The wind comes up, the enormous space-ship cloud formation shifts,

 and almost covers us in cloud-glory. 

The brush growing rapidly from all the precipitation, getting its root systems prepared, going as fast as they can, in genetic recognition of the predictable dry spell July and August will bring, where they simply sustain themselves until fall’s heavy nighttime’s dew provides a reprieve.

 There are small secret places within the brush, where, if you peer within, there are the river’s waters rushing by far below. You catch a glimpse of birds living quietly , the swaths cut by larger wildlife, who wait until you are far away at home and fast asleep , to safely make their way down to the water’s edge for a cool drink, a dip, and river sustenance.

Walking along the path, half the people greet you, 90% obsess about the pup. 

At a certain point, I hear the noisy plop of a surprised beaver, 

submersing themselves til I pass away and they have their safe privacy once again.

 Leaves and grasses are still covered with droplets, from last night's rain.

Finally the old dog is done, and somehow always knows the direction to the car, nestling in her front seat (the place of power, just like when we were all little, with siblings or cousins and all, so it is with canines. Funny. ) 

And out bounces the pup, ready for his turn to run and race and pounce and 

hurl himself into the brush, smoosh his pup nose into mud, dig, roll ,

 and ensure his adequate muddled coverage for the ride back. 

One more beautiful peaceful evening at the river.