(So continues this sporadic guest-column-like effort from Rosie, who turned seven in March and on June 30 will have lived with me for three years. No matter what else is going on, Rosie reminds me that smiles and unconditional joy are not finite resources.)
When I last submitted a contest-winning essay, we were anxiously awaiting the onset of winter, when temperatures finally drop to comfortable levels, albeit after sunset. I have noticed an odd thing about humans, though: An eagerness to engage in newly fallen snow combined with galactic incompetence in negotiating it.
Nothing seems stranger than a request to train on a path coated with virgin snow—so fresh and so clean!—only to have your companion go tender-footing along as if danger prevails. I have fallen countless times while running full-speed in snow, and the worst that has happened is smashing into a board fence at close to 20 miles per hour, well worth the glee of observing a loudmouth squirrel launch itself from the top of the fence into a nearby tree like a coward. (If squirrels wish to have proper conversations about common property, they can very well descend from their tree and talk to me face to face, like adults.)
A conundrum of winter, to be sure, is the inexplicable reclusiveness of my partners in play. Not only squirrels but prairie “dogs” and rabbits become scarce until February or so despite the inviting tableau of open, powdery fields. Why any creature not literally kept on a leash elects to spend so much time indoors will, I suspect, forever remain one of recreational life’s more elusive mysteries.
I have been able to keep my mileage at around 40 per week, usually just choosing to do whatever my partner decides to do without complaint. I have, however, begun forcefully guiding us toward the northeastern part of the yard, where the prairie “dog” equivalent of Burning Man is perpetually in progress. In and out of their bunkers they scramble, loosing hoarse and inelegant cries about trespassing even as they do nothing for the upkeep of their freely provided surroundings.
My understanding is that the world has been ill. It does not look that way to me, as visitors to a bridge in the south-central portion of the yard have maintained a festive and decorative spirit during the now-ebbing bandana-face era.
Winter, alas, was all to brief; with the first snowfall of the season (the day after Labor Day) and the last (mid-May) only about eight months apart, it seems like the last heat wave barely ended.
You may have read about our recent chariot ride to visit wildlife beyond the reach of the yard, which reportedly extends only slightly into Wyoming. Neglected in those wandering narratives was the occasional roadside and trail-side presence of pronghorn antelopes. These, like bison, typically do not construct burrows, but every other animal in this region does; apparently by covenant, while the prairie “dogs” own Colorado, the other large rectangular states host gophers and moles instead.
Deer, in contrast to both pack and solo travelers, typically employ the buddy system.
Back in Boulder, now that the days are scorching and lively, I dunk myself in creeks at random times, like clockwork, during our exercise travels. Sometimes we wait until dusk, when rabbits emerge from the thickets to stand guard on the lawns of houses in the adjacent neighborhood. Because many homes here are redolent of marijuana, it is theorized that these rabbits are trained to prevent the theft of budding product. They are, I allow, proficient at staring contests.
I, on the other hand, stink of creek and proudly so. Boulder Creek, the roaring floodwaters of which at this time of year rival the mighty Mississippi; Skunk Creek, which smells like bears; Bear Creek, which smells like skunks; and Dry Creek, which is startlingly watery when loaded with moving fluid.
If you could see how adorable I appear after these brave quotidian adventures, sprawled before a fan and being toweled off bellywise until I offer the stop signal, you would immediately see why my ribs are not perfectly defined at all times. I have become so skillful at lobbying for additions to the evening meal from the meat locker that I am thinking of writing a book about my secrets.
I would reveal more about what I have seen lately, but this would violate my NDA, and besides, it appears that it is time to watch more of an endless historical documentary Criminal Minds. As unsettling as it is that humans go to such lengths to trouble each other, sometimes I require a respite from “someone’s” pawing at the notemaker machine in the corner of the mansion.
Oh. And don’t forget to include your Happy Father’s Day. Why this is only once a year escapes me, but then so do a lot of human customs.
