(this was written in February)
Today I was driving home through the rolling hills and endless valleys of western West Virginia, alone, close to crossing the Kentucky border. The roads were clear and the sun was shining, the snow from the day before yesterday laid peacefully on every hill and pasture. And in the distance, on one hill i saw a dozen cows. All were standing in no particular form or in any type of unified order. Some wandered from here to there. Others stood still looking off to the distance. There was to be no grazing as the hill was covered with 6 inches of snow. And amidst it all, a dog played. He ran to each of the cows, in no particular order, and would stand and bark. Then as if possessed he would run from the group and bark to the distance. He'd run back and fitfully engage another cow. I was too far away to hear anything. But by the posture of the dog, I am sure he was barking at the top of his lungs. And I realized the dog was very much like me. Trying to influence those around him, barking at the sky, running in circles, stopping and darting to the next subject that he thought he could persuade. But the cows had no concern for the dog; and the dog wouldn't give up. Uninvolved, uncommitted and unconcerned, the cows stood, or walked, or rolled their eyes. The dog continued. I drove and smiled. I felt the heat of my car heater through my black leather shoes, and it was toasty, almost musky with the melted snow on the carpet under my feet. All I could think of was the dog, and the cows and the hill and i had a distant feeling of someone saying something like “snug as a bug in a rug” but it was more like déjà vue than anything else. I smiled bigger as I opened my window a few inches from closed. I hate the cold. But for a minute, I enjoyed the arctic blast and the smell of winter and earth flowing freely through my Honda. I was still smiling miles past the dog-and-cows scene. But before I turned the radio back on, I made a promise to myself to remember the scene. Turns out, I can’t forget it no matter what.
Feb 6 09
Today I was driving home through the rolling hills and endless valleys of western West Virginia, alone, close to crossing the Kentucky border. The roads were clear and the sun was shining, the snow from the day before yesterday laid peacefully on every hill and pasture. And in the distance, on one hill i saw a dozen cows. All were standing in no particular form or in any type of unified order. Some wandered from here to there. Others stood still looking off to the distance. There was to be no grazing as the hill was covered with 6 inches of snow. And amidst it all, a dog played. He ran to each of the cows, in no particular order, and would stand and bark. Then as if possessed he would run from the group and bark to the distance. He'd run back and fitfully engage another cow. I was too far away to hear anything. But by the posture of the dog, I am sure he was barking at the top of his lungs. And I realized the dog was very much like me. Trying to influence those around him, barking at the sky, running in circles, stopping and darting to the next subject that he thought he could persuade. But the cows had no concern for the dog; and the dog wouldn't give up. Uninvolved, uncommitted and unconcerned, the cows stood, or walked, or rolled their eyes. The dog continued. I drove and smiled. I felt the heat of my car heater through my black leather shoes, and it was toasty, almost musky with the melted snow on the carpet under my feet. All I could think of was the dog, and the cows and the hill and i had a distant feeling of someone saying something like “snug as a bug in a rug” but it was more like déjà vue than anything else. I smiled bigger as I opened my window a few inches from closed. I hate the cold. But for a minute, I enjoyed the arctic blast and the smell of winter and earth flowing freely through my Honda. I was still smiling miles past the dog-and-cows scene. But before I turned the radio back on, I made a promise to myself to remember the scene. Turns out, I can’t forget it no matter what.
Feb 6 09
No comments:
Post a Comment