Mica is curled tight on her bed, shiny black nose tucked under thick bushy tail, one maleficent eyebrow cocked, watching me. An hour ago she was pestering me for a walk. Now, she’s judgmental, but resigned, until I speak the magic words. “Alright, let’s go.” She springs out the door, springs back, pushes me with her forward paws when I dawdle. We walk. Our walk takes us to an old farm pond, dammed decades ago to capture a couple of small streams shedding off the southern side of Lake Jocassee. A duck box stands among tag alders on the far shore, and we pause (paws) to check for activity. Winter is fully here now, and as if to reinforce that notion, sleet begins to fall, popping loudly against evergreen rhododendron and mountain laurel leaves. If it weren’t for a dog, I wouldn’t be out here in the sleet. May I always have one. ~K
