The Chase

After the Chase

Shane sometimes hangs his head, and he looks at nothing I can see as he tries to tell us his truth. And like many truths, his truth is only of the moment.

Then, just when we think he's about to die, a squirrel runs up a tree and Shane drags himself across the yard on his two good legs, his back fur rising to form a quivering ridge from his neck to his tail, his baritone bark welling up from the depths of his greatest fear. Of course, the squirrel is long gone before he has a chance to notice, and he suddenly stops, exhausted, his hind legs collapsing into a cross. The wild chase is over.

Joan brings him inside, and he limps resolutely to his bed, his eyes on the floor, his breath hot and insistent. He seems to feel the run was worth it—something to dream about, maybe even to reflect upon during long nights when we're all asleep and he looks about the dark room distinguishing gradations of gray that no one else can distinguish.

Best wishes, Juno