I've spent three afternoons in a row doing the same thing, and today it stops.
Every afternoon I go down to the central park by myself, the one with the big oak tree in the middle and the old stone fountain that drips even though nobody turns it on. And every afternoon, around the same time — I couldn't tell you exactly when, but my nose knows, because the air shifts a little right before she shows up — Bella comes down the usual path, with that walk of hers that barely seems to touch the ground.
And every afternoon I do exactly the same thing: I hide behind the fountain.
I don't know why I do it. My ears go forward on their own, my tail starts wagging before I decide to wag it, and my paws, instead of taking me toward her the way they do with any other new dog in the village, take me backward, behind the stone, where I end up staring through the moss like an idiot.
Linda says that's normal. That it happens to all of us with someone, at some point. I don't fully understand it, but I trust she knows what she's talking about, because Linda always knows what she's talking about.
Today I decided: not this time. Today, the moment the air changed, I was going to walk straight to her, no hiding spots, no fountain in between.
The air changed. I planted my paws in the grass, breathed in the smell of wet dirt from the park, and started walking.
I lasted four steps.
On the fifth, a butterfly crossed right in front of my nose, and the rest of my body decided, without asking me, that this was far more urgent than anything else in the universe. I chased the butterfly all the way to the other side of the oak, until I lost it in the branches, and when I looked back toward the path, Bella was already halfway there, watching me with her head tilted slightly, the way you look at someone doing something you can't quite figure out.
There was no turning back after that. So I did the only thing I know how to do when there's no time left to plan anything: I ran straight at her, ears back, and every bit of clumsiness I've built up in eleven months of life.
I didn't trip. That's a victory I want written down somewhere.
I reached her nose-first, the way it's always done, and she lowered her head and smelled too, unhurried, like she'd spent three afternoons waiting for someone to finally make up their mind. We circled each other slowly a couple of times, and then, without anyone saying it out loud, we both took off running toward the oak, then the fountain, then the oak again.
I don't know how long we kept that up. By my count: much less than one nap, and much more than anything else that's happened to me all week.
When I finally decided it was time to head home, before it got fully dark, it took real effort not to stay a little longer, which isn't like me. Bella stayed watching as I walked away, and I walked backward for the first few steps, not wanting to lose that moment a second before I had to, until I actually tripped, for real this time, over the neighbors' garden hose.
Worth it.
— Max 🐾
🐾 Thursday, Linda narrates: the summer fair in the village square, and why Rocco isn't allowed anywhere near the sausage stand.