Through the Eyes of Your Dog

She wanders through the field, her hands lazily grazing the tops of wheat buds as she makes her way down the hill. The sunlight casts a glow over her amber hair and kisses them all with flattering light, a final farewell to the day, while the dogs whisper in quick flashes through the faded stalks, chasing birds and bunnies and bugs. She smiles broadly, her eyes crinkling softly in the corners, at their carefree enjoyment, wishing for a moment that she could take chase with them, but worrying silently of appearing foolish. The black dog, tall and lean, athletic and strong, makes an eternal path of zig zags; rushing off in hot pursuit, then lazily back to check his girl, before bursting off again, only to repeat the process endlessly. They move together, seemingly connected by an invisible string of predetermined length. He mirrors her movements and shadows her steps, as though his world revolved around her… as in fact, it does. A subtle flick of her wrist or nod of her head is often all she needs to send him back or forth, sitting silent or rushing brazenly ahead, communicating her wishes without words. Her movements, however subtle and soft, never slip past him unnoticed. She is always within his sight.


As the horizon grows vibrant and dusk settles in, crickets begin to play their melodies and the fireflies come out to dance along. The pack ventures into the valley for a refreshing dip at the water’s edge beneath a canopy of trees. Tongues and toes embrace the cool comfort, but before long, they wander back out into the setting sun. The dogs, appropriately sore and tired from the day’s adventures, duck their heads and stretch their tails in a glorious sunset shake-off, causing the fading light to catch shards of water droplets and allowing them to burst to life like flying embers from a fire. She turns, shielding herself to escape their shower, but it is too late. She shakes her head with amusement and admits defeat.


More damp than sopping, she guides the tailgate of her truck down and lets the girls jump in back to make a pile of puppy-satisfaction, all wagging tongues and tails. The front seat is reserved for her main man, her co-pilot, her quiet companion. They each climb in, and as she tunes the radio to her favorite ‘90s station, she slips on her old aviators, and her cowboy boot presses down on the clutch. The black dog slowly sinks down, stretching his head to rest over her faded blue jeans, his whiskers tickling her summer-tanned skin through the fraying hole.


“I wish people could see me through the eyes of my dog.” she thinks “This is what dreams are made of.”

And so does he.

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