Old Dog

I wonder what old dogs think about. I wonder what animals of any kind think about. Nearly every day on my way to work I see this old, white dog patroling the edge of the highway. He (or she) lives out in the country on a back road I like to take to avoid traffic. He looks fairly healthy, but his coat has lost its sheen and he could use some care and attention. He ambles along the end of his territory in no particular hurry. Just taking his time as if he's pondering some great scheme to ruin the neighbor's garden patch, or recalling the younger days of chasing rabbits and savoring soup bones. He looks like the kind that would stop to see you if you were to stop to see him. He'd probably walk over ever so slowly, smell your hand, welcome a pat on the head, then be off to complete his rounds.

There's something about the way he looks at me as I pass by in my truck. Those dark brown eyes lock with mine for just a few seconds as I hurry along my own path. He seems neither concerned nor pestered by my presence, and continues his walk just as soon as I leave.

But I see something in those eyes. Rememberance, maybe, of days now gone, of friends he'd known and lost, of fond memories when both he and his owner were younger, more limber, more spry, more agile. There's a longing in those eyes. A longing for times gone by, or for time to just get on with it.