Protected

Photo Credit: Creative Commons

He's out there again. I feel it in my bones, in every fiber of my being; it is something I know for certain and I tremble with anticipation. The lights inside the little cottage where we sit are bright, rendering the windows blackened mirror faces, reflecting only my own pensive gaze. That I cannot see his face does not change the fact that he is there, slinking in the darkness, malice his intent.

I move from room to room, sometimes with her, sometimes without. I know when he is peering through the windows and watching. He hates that I am here with her; it infuriates him that she finds comfort in my company, in my touch and my protectiveness. He knows that as long as I am here with her, he must stay out there in the cold darkness, hidden in the shadows.

I go to her on the couch and sit beside her letting our bodies touch ever so slightly while she types away on her computer. I don't want to disturb her, just let her know I am here. She is lost in her thoughts, writing as she does for hours without moving. She reaches out and touches me absently. It's her way of acknowledging I am here without stopping what she is doing.

I sense him move from one window to the next and I stiffen in alert. She takes her eyes from the screen and her brow furrows in concern. Her own gaze scans the room, pausing to look at each window. She knows what I feel, but she relies solely on sight. She sees nothing from where she sits and shakes her head slightly.

"Shhhhhh. It's alright," she croons to me. "No fussing." She reaches out and caresses my leg. I try to be reassured by her touch, but I know things she does not. My senses have been heightened by years of training and I know he is out there watching us, waiting for me to drop my guard.

The irony in this is that I am here to warn her, to tell her when he arrives so that she can close the blinds, lock the doors and make the call, but when I do, when I tell her he is there again, insisting she look for herself, she only shushes me. Too many times has he been clever enough not to be easily seen. Too many times he has stepped just beyond the illuminating light of her own lamps. She doesn't see because her eyes are weaker than mine but sometimes she doesn't see because she doesn't want to see.

He is so close to the window now I can almost make out the lines of his face in the darkness. He stares at me before he fixes his greedy eyes on her. I shift in my seat and lean forward. Just a little closer and she will see him... She will see that he is there.

"Would you sit back, please?" She asks me, more than trace impatience in her tone. "You're making the couch all wonky." She reaches for me again, rubs my back with her hand and taps me along my spine.

"If you're not going to sit here nicely, why don't you sit somewhere else? I have work to do." She motions me away from her side.

I search her eyes but find only her desire to continue her work uninterrupted. With a sigh I leave her and go to the window where he stands and situate myself into a chair close by.

"Thank you, Gabe." She smiles at me sweetly. "I'm almost done and we can go out for a walk. I know I've been working a lot but try to be patient."

He moves away from my window now. I can hear his feet crushing leaves in the fall night air and it is too much for me. How can she not hear that noise? I take in a deep breath and ready myself to speak...

"WOOF!"

My alert startles her and she jumps in her seat. "Gabe!" She is irritated now as she sets her computer on the coffee table and makes her way toward the door in a huff. "C'mon!" She beckons to me impatiently. She swings the door wide and I can smell him. He is too close!

I leap from my perch and race out the door as she slams it behind me with a sigh. "Crazy damned dog!" She breathes after me.

I don't hesitate at the insult, instead I round the corner off the small porch just soon enough to watch his tall figure leap over the high back fence. I run to the perimeter and bend my nose to the wet earth where his boot left a print. I drink deep of his odor. It was him, sodden with fear. I peer through the fence slats and watch him run in panic down the alley and away from her, away from my bared teeth and low, menacing growl.

His running gait fades into the night air as I trot back to the porch and lay across the mat at the doorway. I exhale in quick short bursts to push his stink out of my nostrils and lay my head across my forepaws. I close my eyes in relief knowing I have kept her safe again, despite her ignorance of my valor. That is not important to me. This is who I am: her protector, her confidant, her partner, her dog.

In The Air

It was easy to remember the first time. Like the building rumble of jet engines preparing for takeoff, the roar rising ever louder, her blood had rushed in her ears. The pounding of her heart reminiscent of that heady, all encompassing vibration that started deep in her chest and climbed it's way up her spine, goose flesh jumping to her skin in an  eruption of excitement. The noise  was deafening as her body cried out for more, always more... It filled her head with a blinding crescendo that allowed nothing else. There had been many times after that, but the first was easy to remember because she'd been so filled to the brim with the mind-boggling noise of it.

As she sat in the back of the plane, feeling the weightlessness of takeoff, she wondered if life would ever be the same. Could she return to normal; the routines, the boredom and the malaise? Would it ever be enough again to know what was coming next, what was in the crock for dinner, the schedule and the mundaneness of it? She watched out the window as her craft took flight.

It didn't matter, did it? Whether she could see it or not, it was going to happen. She was going home.

She watched as the land and water fell away beneath her, her forehead resting on the cool glass, her head rocking back and forth. Laughter and chatter wafted from the other passengers, but she heard little of it.

She was leaving it behind, that rushing, heart-pounding heady feeling. It was slowly being replaced by the soft fleece of regularity. She'd be back to ponytails and sweatshirts soon, virtually invisible in her sphere of routine. She'd pack away the gauzy tunics and palazzo pants. She'd tuck the short, sleeveless black shift in the back of her closet, along with the daring red pumps. She was leaving that woman below in the sun drenched streets and the cool, shady cafes.

She was morphing slowly, inevitably, back into the dowdy, yoga-pant-clad mom of three; harried and hurried, barely showered and often hungry. She was leaving behind leisurely cappuccinos and croissant with fresh fruit for cold chicken nuggets, congealed oatmeal and icy coffee in a worn travel mug. Elegance floated away, down through the clouds, as humdrum banality pulsed in the engines that carried her toward home. 

She sighed and watched as her breath created a misty cloud of condensation on the glass. She reached her finger up to draw in it and hesitated. What should she sketch there? A heart? Fleeting and meaningless, too simple and pedestrian. No, she was more than that, she needed more than that. Her finger traced in the wetness slowly. 

First a dot, then below it, a small crescent. She closed her eyes and breathed over it, erasing then drawing again. A semi colon; this wasn't the end. She'd be back. She had to come back to rendezvous with that woman who wore the high heels and let her hair hang down her back to blow and tangle in the breeze.  She liked that woman. She needed that woman.

She needed to be transformed, to don other skin, to morph and shift with the rising temperatures and the muggy atmosphere. It sapped others of strength, but not her. She was made new in the denseness of air. In that fertile, moist environment she was reborn. She was more real, more terrestrial than ever when the sun wrapped around her and invaded every pore. Below was her real home, her Genesis, the essence of everything she desired. 

She would pause now, put her rebirth on hold as she raised her babies, supported her husband and built their business. She would don responsibilities like a heavy winter coat against isolating frigidity and blistering boredom, but she would return one day.

That was who she was, that freshness, that dewy soft spot on vibrant colors. She was not the washed out hard, pale pastels of winter, but the bright, raucous, thickly fragrant scent of exotic and steamy locales. She was not Vivaldi and soft falling snow, she was calypso and sand between toes. 

As the plane climbed high above the veil of thickening clouds she closed her eyes and drifted. She would be back, it was only a matter of time.