It’s early morning and half an hour before the sun edges over a mountain line on the other side of Lake Zoar. Little bit by little bit it creeps above the horizon. Snow has faded from the ground and now Lily and I crash through the woods like loud static. Across dried leaves and snapping twigs our feet pound. A branch catches my knit hat. Briars tear at my clothes and Lily keeps moving sniffing looking for something to eat bite chase. Hold It! She stops.
We’re working on being obedient. While I hold one end of the leash and repeat myself Lily is doing whatever 18-month-old doggy thing she wants. I saw the vet today who gave me pills that contain clay. Maybe that will bind her insides.
Birds, sunlight. We run home after a quick pass through a mini grove of cedars perched on a cluster of rocks. Portions of the ground are smooth where deer lay at night. Days in the past and during a hard rain, stick in hand and dogs galloping past me, I saw deer staring my way from beneath a similar island of trees. They were in profile, heads turned. Away they ran out from under the protection of branches and evergreen. The dogs either didn’t notice or didn’t care. That was weeks ago, before Lily.
This morning with her nose poking the contours of smoothed leaves, she traces an outline perfectly matched to a deer that will return later, watching for hunters, coyotes, flying arrows, and men in bright orange after them after them after them. I watch for flying saucers, veterinary bills, training bills, and a sign that Lily’s stomach is holding her food. Each day I hope her ribs will blend into fattening fur.