The song of Ollie

The dog is out walking a long walk. A thaw has opened up the river and ducks bob in the light chop of the black water. A bald eagle circles the open water and then moves up river. The dog trots along the pedestrian path of the river bridge, his ears lifting in the wind, his nose down. His tail is raised slightly and bounces as he walk, the white tip a small flash of brightness.

Back at home the quiet has settled like a fog. The cats relax their guard. Pico, the philosopher king, stretches out on the absent dog's bed and dozes. Adric, the soldier, stares out the window at birds and then he too settles into a nap, no dog to outsmart for the while.

And up from the basement creeps Ollie. Ollie is the mystic, the dreamer of mad dreams, the bearer of strange memories. He waits until the house is filled with calm, until the gray afternoon light flows through the windows and he can hear time itself tick by. Then he settles himself. For a while there is no dog to chase him and he is free. He can sit quietly in the corner and stare inward with enormous eyes. He can prepare for his nightly ritual, an endlessly long and warbled howl, like an opera in an unknown tongue and an unfamiliar scale. It may be the story of his youth, it may be the telling of his hopes and dreams. Most likely it is just the glory of sound itself that fills his body and then the entire house. The rest may pause and wonder what does it might mean. But it doesn't have to mean anything. It is just the song of Ollie.