Regard the prairie - level your gaze upon the horizon. Ponder the meaning of all things. Then roll around in the little blue stem and collect your first ticks of the season.
I am a country dog. In fact, the place I was found running wild all these many years ago, before I came to live with my person, was called the Prairie of the Dogs. Only in French. Maybe the French settlers were referring to the oodles of local prairie dogs, something like gophers in appearance, but I prefer to think they were casting their minds forward to the day when Finnegan, a little red real and not-at-all-gopherlike dog, would be roaming in that very place.
I felt at home on my visit to this prairie with my Person and my Best Friend, and the ticks I found felt very at home on me. Unfortunately for them my Person has a sharp eye and they lost out on a trip to the big city. They are still on the prairie even now, perhaps still clutching bits of red fur in their sticky little paws, and gazing at the tire marks we left behind.
But the season is early and I am sure that I will have more beautiful prairie walks this summer and collect more ticks for my Person to find hidden in my fur like I could hide in this place for many happy hours.
1 comment:
Well said.
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