Dianne M. Bret Harte on Snitzle heidivanderbilt on The puppies opened their … david root on The puppies opened their … Liz LaFarge on Snitzle Joyce H. on Snitzle
I took the dogs to the pond this evening. They ran for scent, rolled where deer had rutted, grazed like cattle on green sprouts down stream from the drinker. The pond is completely dry. Only the weight of the red bull has punched through cracked earth to a little dampness. At the drinker, a mountain lion came with her cub, each leaving a single disappointed print in soft powder.
Someone built a stone cairn.
Small walks, morning and evening, to hunt the scent of bobcat and lion, coyote and javelina, to follow the side by side tracks of hunters in the arroyos. I hear the breath of leaves. Evening light fractures language. These words I’ve carried all day in my mind sliver. The dogs find something to roll in, something to eat.
The puppies opened their eyes and I gave them names. Woody, Bruno, Stella, Orson, Penny and Sophie. Solid food entered their diets. They figured out how to get out of their box and wiggled over the kitchen floor. Harpo rounded them up.
When they were about three weeks old, he allowed one of his friends–Brewmeister, the Beagle–into the house to meet them. One by one over the next few weeks, he invited his other friends in, too. Once in a while, he left me in charge of the puppies and went outside for a quick romp before trotting back to check on them.
A Tucson psychotherapist heard about Harpo and the puppies and created the Harpo Award, given annually to an especially nurturing man.