Dog Day

Daylight sends its away team over the Sangre de Cristos, and no one notices except Teddy and Bear.

“We need out, right? Don’t you think so, Bear? Now? We’d better go out NOW.”

“I think Martha is sleeping. It’s still dark.”

“Not very dark. It’s time to go out and pee and patrol the periphery. I’m sure it’s time. The squirrel will wake up any minute. What if we miss first light?”


“I dunno… I’ve never missed it.”

Daylight sends one or two slim, luminous fingers between the peaks of the Blanca Massif some forty miles away.


“Teddy,” sighs Bear. “She knows.”

“Awright,” comes a tired voice from behind the closed tiger oak door. Teddy cocks his head, waiting for the muffled sound of covers being kicked off the bed.

“She’s coming. OK Bear. Get ready. She’s going to let us out. C’mon.”

“Get ready for WHAT??? Who died and made you boss?”


Bear stretches. “Dusty died but he didn’t make you boss.”

“Who’s the boss?”

Bear shakes her whole giant dog breed body to wake up. The question is undeserving of further response.

Footsteps plop along the wooden floor in the dark. “C’mon guys.” Martha opens the wood back door, moves the dryer back to its spot in the laundry room (don’t ask), opens the storm door, leaves it open about a foot, turns on the water in the kitchen, and stumbles back to bed not to make a reappearance until dawn’s rosy fingers are sure of themselves and Apollo’s cart arrives in all its full glory.