Dare

I took the dogs for an early walk this morning at Old Chatham.  The colors were just beginning to emerge from the grey of dawn, morning mist lifting in wisps like woodland fairies.  As we walked the leaf strewn trail along the river the dogs caught scent of some wild thing recently crossed our path.  Dare, almost 14 with bad knees and ailing kidneys, was first to catch the trail of the unknown creature.  In that muffled and magical wood he shed the weight of the years like shaking water from his coat.  His back lifted, head up, he sprang through the woods over saplings and logs, turning straight up an almost vertical slope up to a hayfield a good 50 feet above.  Turning mid slope he bounded back down, following the trail.  He was not an old dog having a good time despite his frailties.  He was 5 again, in his prime, vibrant, powerful and so very alive. I called his name and he flew to my feet.  He met my gaze with eyes full of unencumbered delight.  Perhaps he was chasing a faun or unicorn.  Whatever beast left those traces of itself for Dare to find gave us both a few minutes of immortal joy.