Sunday, March 8, 2026, 40.6* F, 93% RH, 0921
For the second time this morning, now light, I stand on deck Ruger beside me, the giants exploring snow, crust gone, feet sinking unexpectedly. Rain makes no sound. I don’t hear the rooster. I don’t hear traffic. Metal arms holding spaceship solar lights hold a row of raindrops like kids in summer on a bridge waiting their turn to jump. Stream randomly appearing. Fog.
Ruger follows me inside waits for the beach towel to cover him, waits for my touch to dry him, wiggles all over. At eleven years old, he’s not gray, still resembles a bear cub. I toss the towel over Zayne hand on him so he doesn’t bolt for his room, watching to see if Chris will appear. Will he ever find his confidence with people? Zsolt, I was careless, the towel covered tail to blocky head he swings side to side walking forward trying to remove the mask of darkness not knowing where he’s going. My touch stills him once I close the door. For a single-coated dog, his fur holds so much water!
A touch conveys more.
Photo: LJ Austin
