Tara Fox Hall's Blog, page 11
November 19, 2011
Happy Thanksgiving - Part Three - for nonfiction followers
Here is Chasing Cows, set to publish in the upcoming issue of On The River. For a print copy, contact the editor at:
"Dusty Miller Farm"
CHASING COWS
The first mistake I made was looking out the window when Tawny Dog barked. Her bark wasn’t the interested dog comment on an animal in our yard; it was the intruder alert bark saying that someone was in the front yard right then and there. In other words, it was the one bark that in good conscience I couldn’t ignore.
Peering out, I saw not the expected Jehovah’s Witness, but instead a small herd of cows. They were heading right for the pumpkin plants.
I yelled for Eric, shut the dogs in my room, and hurriedly pushed my feet into my shoes, swearing. Grabbing a jacket, I dashed outside, just getting to them in time before they ambled into the garden.
“Again?” Eric said in dismay from the deck.
“Again,” I answered.
“I’ll be right there.”
What he meant was that these were the same cows we’d chased the day before, and put back in their pasture. Now, we’d have to do it all over again. This time, they were more than a mile away from their rightful field: a mile we would have to walk back with them.
At first, everything went fine. The cows allowed themselves to be herded back down the road by the barn, across the alfalfa field, and through the woods. But halfway across the big hayfield, thunder boomed from the east, and they suddenly scattered.
To the rescue came the farmer’s daughter, Jesse, roaring up on her ATV. In defiance of her attempts to push them back, the herd began running hard, going over the far side of the field into an orchard. Jesse and Eric headed after them, with me bringing up the rear.
A rumble of thunder sounded again, this time directly above. I looked up, nervous. The sky was dark, big rainclouds rapidly approaching.
I began running hard for the edge of the field, swearing as the first drops began to fall.
Luck was on us. We got the cows back out of the trees, the headed across the field. Down they went, mooing, through the small open gate, and down the straight track to their pasture.
Thunder cracked again. The cows began to run all out. Jesse was right after them on her ATV. Straggling behind came Eric and I.
Our luck suddenly evaporated as rain began to pour down, soaking us. Thunder rumbled repeatedly. We hurried down the already sodden track, wiping at our eyes to see. As we came to the gate, Jesse opened it, and the cows went in. She shut it. The rain intensified, pelting us, the huge drops stinging.
After thanking us, Jesse jumped on her ATV and headed home, cringing over the handlebars, her clothes and hair soaked. Eric and I headed back the way we came, plodding slowly as we got wetter and wetter.
We were soaked to the skin by the time we got home, our clothed plastered to us, our hair dripping and our shoes squishing with each step. As we neared out house, the sun came out, the bright light bathing us.
“Think there’s a story in this?” I asked him.
He grimaced back at me. “If there ever was a story to be told, this is it.”
"Dusty Miller Farm"
CHASING COWS
The first mistake I made was looking out the window when Tawny Dog barked. Her bark wasn’t the interested dog comment on an animal in our yard; it was the intruder alert bark saying that someone was in the front yard right then and there. In other words, it was the one bark that in good conscience I couldn’t ignore.
Peering out, I saw not the expected Jehovah’s Witness, but instead a small herd of cows. They were heading right for the pumpkin plants.
I yelled for Eric, shut the dogs in my room, and hurriedly pushed my feet into my shoes, swearing. Grabbing a jacket, I dashed outside, just getting to them in time before they ambled into the garden.
“Again?” Eric said in dismay from the deck.
“Again,” I answered.
“I’ll be right there.”
What he meant was that these were the same cows we’d chased the day before, and put back in their pasture. Now, we’d have to do it all over again. This time, they were more than a mile away from their rightful field: a mile we would have to walk back with them.
At first, everything went fine. The cows allowed themselves to be herded back down the road by the barn, across the alfalfa field, and through the woods. But halfway across the big hayfield, thunder boomed from the east, and they suddenly scattered.
To the rescue came the farmer’s daughter, Jesse, roaring up on her ATV. In defiance of her attempts to push them back, the herd began running hard, going over the far side of the field into an orchard. Jesse and Eric headed after them, with me bringing up the rear.
A rumble of thunder sounded again, this time directly above. I looked up, nervous. The sky was dark, big rainclouds rapidly approaching.
I began running hard for the edge of the field, swearing as the first drops began to fall.
Luck was on us. We got the cows back out of the trees, the headed across the field. Down they went, mooing, through the small open gate, and down the straight track to their pasture.
Thunder cracked again. The cows began to run all out. Jesse was right after them on her ATV. Straggling behind came Eric and I.
Our luck suddenly evaporated as rain began to pour down, soaking us. Thunder rumbled repeatedly. We hurried down the already sodden track, wiping at our eyes to see. As we came to the gate, Jesse opened it, and the cows went in. She shut it. The rain intensified, pelting us, the huge drops stinging.
After thanking us, Jesse jumped on her ATV and headed home, cringing over the handlebars, her clothes and hair soaked. Eric and I headed back the way we came, plodding slowly as we got wetter and wetter.
We were soaked to the skin by the time we got home, our clothed plastered to us, our hair dripping and our shoes squishing with each step. As we neared out house, the sun came out, the bright light bathing us.
“Think there’s a story in this?” I asked him.
He grimaced back at me. “If there ever was a story to be told, this is it.”
Happy Thanksgiving Part II - For Romance Fans
Here is an excerpt from my upcoming story Kink in Wicked Christmas Wishes, going to print and e-book on Decempber 4th!
KINK
By
Tara Fox Hall
Another new message blip appeared at the bottom right hand of the screen, before fading and disappearing. Paul blinked, then rubbed his left eye with his hand. That one had been from the VP, asking again where the status report was. He was working on it, Damn it, but he could only work so fast, especially with all the emails that kept appearing…
“Lunch!” came the urgent loud call.
Paul paused, considering his options. If he stayed to work on his report, his boss might not ream him out Monday morning. Yet if he didn’t come eat in the next few moments, his wife Joy would not only be irritated, she’d likely come up here and give him both barrels. It was a no brainer, really. She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed was the clear choice.
He pushed back his chair, then stood up, stretching the kinks out of his muscles. Maybe he could convince Joy to give him a quick massage after lunch. His wife had the most skill of any masseuse he’d ever visited. He’d only had to feel her hands on him once to know he wanted them again, and soon. She’d ensnared him just like a hapless fly, and he’d never been so happy to be bedazzled.
He walked towards the kitchen, sniffing the air. It smelled like cookies, not lunch. Maybe she had been baking? Christmas was less than a week away. “Joy?”
He turned the corner, then blinked, his eyes widening. There in the kitchen stood his wife, her beautiful dark blonde corkscrew curls buoyant, her eyes lowered, a sultry smile on her face. She was dressed in red velvet panties, trimmed in white fluff, her creamy breasts flushed, the nipples covered by small red velvet circles trimmed in lace. On her head at a jaunty angle was a santa’s hat. In her hands, she held a gingerbread cookie, one of his favorites.
“Santa’s got a treat for you,” she purred. “Have you been a good boy, Paul?”
KINK
By
Tara Fox Hall
Another new message blip appeared at the bottom right hand of the screen, before fading and disappearing. Paul blinked, then rubbed his left eye with his hand. That one had been from the VP, asking again where the status report was. He was working on it, Damn it, but he could only work so fast, especially with all the emails that kept appearing…
“Lunch!” came the urgent loud call.
Paul paused, considering his options. If he stayed to work on his report, his boss might not ream him out Monday morning. Yet if he didn’t come eat in the next few moments, his wife Joy would not only be irritated, she’d likely come up here and give him both barrels. It was a no brainer, really. She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed was the clear choice.
He pushed back his chair, then stood up, stretching the kinks out of his muscles. Maybe he could convince Joy to give him a quick massage after lunch. His wife had the most skill of any masseuse he’d ever visited. He’d only had to feel her hands on him once to know he wanted them again, and soon. She’d ensnared him just like a hapless fly, and he’d never been so happy to be bedazzled.
He walked towards the kitchen, sniffing the air. It smelled like cookies, not lunch. Maybe she had been baking? Christmas was less than a week away. “Joy?”
He turned the corner, then blinked, his eyes widening. There in the kitchen stood his wife, her beautiful dark blonde corkscrew curls buoyant, her eyes lowered, a sultry smile on her face. She was dressed in red velvet panties, trimmed in white fluff, her creamy breasts flushed, the nipples covered by small red velvet circles trimmed in lace. On her head at a jaunty angle was a santa’s hat. In her hands, she held a gingerbread cookie, one of his favorites.
“Santa’s got a treat for you,” she purred. “Have you been a good boy, Paul?”
Happy Thanksgiving - Part 1 - for horror fans
In honor of all those deer hunters who this day will fill the woods and fields of New York with bloodshed and death-this excerpt is for you.
JUST SHADOWS
The morning dawn was just breaking, fog rising off the small stream below in misty tendrils. The forest was dark and deep, still mostly silent, inky blackness. From time to time, there was rustling in thickets, but it was the small rustling of rabbits and grouse, not the prey he was after today. Suddenly, there came a sharp shriek of a scream owl, startling the man crouched waiting in the tree stand high above.
“They’re just shadows,” Lenny said under his breath, shifting his weight. “How long you been huntin’ these woods? You know better.”
He looked down the barrel, checking the sight one more time. You couldn’t be too careful. It was easy to knock the sight off getting up into the tree stand. God knew, he wasn’t getting any younger. Still, for a man his age, he was pretty limber. Smiling, he settled back, scanning the forest floor. The first day of hunting season was the best day of his year.
****
“Fucking amateurs,” Lenny swore, climbing down out of the tree hours later. “Assholes!”
The morning had been beautiful, the day creeping in quickly, illuminating the shadows. Like clockwork, a beautiful buck had come right to the stream to drink. Lenny had been squeezing the trigger when a rifle crack had shattered the moment, the buck bolting with bloodied flank. Lenny had cursed, then climbed down the wooden ladder quickly, the crackling of dead limbs coming his way testament that the stupid ass who’d shot his buck was giving chase. He’d reached the forest floor in time to stop the young punk.
“What are you, an idiot?” he’s shouted at the boy. “You can’t use a rifle on deer.”
“Who’s going to stop me, old man?” the punk said with a sneer. “There’s no DEC anywhere around here today. They’re all up there on the stateland. It’s party time—”
“You get out of here before I drill your ass where you stand,” Lenny growled. “This is my land. I pay the taxes on it, not you. Get out of here now.”
The punk glared back, but when Lenny’s eyes remained hard and unwavering, the punk’s eyes slid away, then lowered. “I know I hit the animal. I need to track it—”
“You winged him, is all,” Lenny interrupted. “He’ll be fine. But you won’t be if you don’t shut up and get gone. Now.”
The kid turned and began to walk away, muttering under his breath. Lenny watched him until the boy was away, then let his shoulders slump in relief. You could never tell these days if a kid was going to snap, or if he’d been taught to respect his elders. A lot of men Lenny’s age had found the former true. It was a relief he’d been right this time.
But that hadn’t been the worst of it. Lenny had climbed back up into the stand, had lunch, then waited the rest of the afternoon without seeing a goddamned thing. Just as dark was falling, another deer came up, this a buck. Trailing him was a doe. Lenny got into position, and then suddenly, the bark of a dog shattered the stillness, making the deer turn as one and flee.
Lenny cursed again. That damn neighbor of his, out walking her dogs. Didn’t she know today was the first day of hunting season? Yes, she did – there was her bright orange hat and vest. Christ, she even had orange vests on the dogs. He stayed silent, waiting for her to pass.
He’d waited until the shadows were thick, hoping for another chance, but nothing. Pissed off and dejected, Lenny began to reluctantly climb down. This was his first opening day in years that he had noting to show for his efforts. And now dusk was closing on full dark. Damn it, he should have left earlier…
There was a snap as the ladder rung gave way. The ground rushed up to meet him before he could yell.
****
Blinking his eyes, Lenny sat up, trying to ignore his throbbing head. Damn ladder. At least there was a shiver of moon, just enough to illuminate the woods around him weakly. But the thickets and bushes were black as pitch, just shadows with no form.
With a groan, he got to his feet, feeling in his pockets for a flashlight. His wife Hera would be worried about him. She’d been telling him for years to get himself one of those new cell phones. He hadn’t listened, of course. Grumbling, he switched on the flashlight and began walking slowly back to where his truck was parked.
There was a rustling in the thicket ahead. Lenny turned, curious. Maybe it was a deer? Wouldn’t that be funny; a deer coming in so close now, when it was too late to shoot. He aimed his flashlight beam into the thicket, but the weak light wouldn’t penetrate the shadows. All it did was illuminate two eyes shining back at him.
There was a deer in there staring at him. Had to be. Well, there was no point in scaring it. Lenny began to back away slowly.
The eyes held on him, motionless, then very slowly rose in the shadow, until they were level with his height. Then they kept rising up, until they were near eight feet in the air. Again then held still, staring back at him.
Lenny’s skin crawled, as he stared back, frozen in his tracks. Even a deer rearing on its hind feet wouldn’t be that tall. This had to be a bear, and the biggest goddamn one he’d ever seen…
The eyes moved in the darkness forward toward him, leaves rustling with each deliberate footstep.
A bear wouldn’t do that, Lenny thought, backing away. A bear couldn’t walk that far on its hind legs…
The eyes suddenly darted forward, twigs and branches in the thing’s path snapping. Lenny turned and ran.
JUST SHADOWS
The morning dawn was just breaking, fog rising off the small stream below in misty tendrils. The forest was dark and deep, still mostly silent, inky blackness. From time to time, there was rustling in thickets, but it was the small rustling of rabbits and grouse, not the prey he was after today. Suddenly, there came a sharp shriek of a scream owl, startling the man crouched waiting in the tree stand high above.
“They’re just shadows,” Lenny said under his breath, shifting his weight. “How long you been huntin’ these woods? You know better.”
He looked down the barrel, checking the sight one more time. You couldn’t be too careful. It was easy to knock the sight off getting up into the tree stand. God knew, he wasn’t getting any younger. Still, for a man his age, he was pretty limber. Smiling, he settled back, scanning the forest floor. The first day of hunting season was the best day of his year.
****
“Fucking amateurs,” Lenny swore, climbing down out of the tree hours later. “Assholes!”
The morning had been beautiful, the day creeping in quickly, illuminating the shadows. Like clockwork, a beautiful buck had come right to the stream to drink. Lenny had been squeezing the trigger when a rifle crack had shattered the moment, the buck bolting with bloodied flank. Lenny had cursed, then climbed down the wooden ladder quickly, the crackling of dead limbs coming his way testament that the stupid ass who’d shot his buck was giving chase. He’d reached the forest floor in time to stop the young punk.
“What are you, an idiot?” he’s shouted at the boy. “You can’t use a rifle on deer.”
“Who’s going to stop me, old man?” the punk said with a sneer. “There’s no DEC anywhere around here today. They’re all up there on the stateland. It’s party time—”
“You get out of here before I drill your ass where you stand,” Lenny growled. “This is my land. I pay the taxes on it, not you. Get out of here now.”
The punk glared back, but when Lenny’s eyes remained hard and unwavering, the punk’s eyes slid away, then lowered. “I know I hit the animal. I need to track it—”
“You winged him, is all,” Lenny interrupted. “He’ll be fine. But you won’t be if you don’t shut up and get gone. Now.”
The kid turned and began to walk away, muttering under his breath. Lenny watched him until the boy was away, then let his shoulders slump in relief. You could never tell these days if a kid was going to snap, or if he’d been taught to respect his elders. A lot of men Lenny’s age had found the former true. It was a relief he’d been right this time.
But that hadn’t been the worst of it. Lenny had climbed back up into the stand, had lunch, then waited the rest of the afternoon without seeing a goddamned thing. Just as dark was falling, another deer came up, this a buck. Trailing him was a doe. Lenny got into position, and then suddenly, the bark of a dog shattered the stillness, making the deer turn as one and flee.
Lenny cursed again. That damn neighbor of his, out walking her dogs. Didn’t she know today was the first day of hunting season? Yes, she did – there was her bright orange hat and vest. Christ, she even had orange vests on the dogs. He stayed silent, waiting for her to pass.
He’d waited until the shadows were thick, hoping for another chance, but nothing. Pissed off and dejected, Lenny began to reluctantly climb down. This was his first opening day in years that he had noting to show for his efforts. And now dusk was closing on full dark. Damn it, he should have left earlier…
There was a snap as the ladder rung gave way. The ground rushed up to meet him before he could yell.
****
Blinking his eyes, Lenny sat up, trying to ignore his throbbing head. Damn ladder. At least there was a shiver of moon, just enough to illuminate the woods around him weakly. But the thickets and bushes were black as pitch, just shadows with no form.
With a groan, he got to his feet, feeling in his pockets for a flashlight. His wife Hera would be worried about him. She’d been telling him for years to get himself one of those new cell phones. He hadn’t listened, of course. Grumbling, he switched on the flashlight and began walking slowly back to where his truck was parked.
There was a rustling in the thicket ahead. Lenny turned, curious. Maybe it was a deer? Wouldn’t that be funny; a deer coming in so close now, when it was too late to shoot. He aimed his flashlight beam into the thicket, but the weak light wouldn’t penetrate the shadows. All it did was illuminate two eyes shining back at him.
There was a deer in there staring at him. Had to be. Well, there was no point in scaring it. Lenny began to back away slowly.
The eyes held on him, motionless, then very slowly rose in the shadow, until they were level with his height. Then they kept rising up, until they were near eight feet in the air. Again then held still, staring back at him.
Lenny’s skin crawled, as he stared back, frozen in his tracks. Even a deer rearing on its hind feet wouldn’t be that tall. This had to be a bear, and the biggest goddamn one he’d ever seen…
The eyes moved in the darkness forward toward him, leaves rustling with each deliberate footstep.
A bear wouldn’t do that, Lenny thought, backing away. A bear couldn’t walk that far on its hind legs…
The eyes suddenly darted forward, twigs and branches in the thing’s path snapping. Lenny turned and ran.
November 12, 2011
Sunset
This story remains one of my favorites. I hope you enjoy it, too. The first version was first published in Catnip Blossoms in 2006, Winter Vol 12 Issue 10. If you like it, please share it with others. :)
Sunset
It was the end of midsummer, and the first signs of the coming winter could be seen. I was walking to the barn to close it up, enjoying the night air with one of my cats and reflecting on the work done that day. The days were getting shorter, and the flowers were beginning to wane. But there was still enough green and warmth and wildlife left to make me sigh with contentment. As I neared the barn, I saw something fluttering at the base of the door, which my cat was quick to check out. Several somethings, actually. They were Luna moths, a beautiful 4 inch or so larger moth with yellow, green, and white wings reminiscent of a fairy's wings. They had been flying some 50 feet above my heard near the 150 watt barn light, been drawn in by the warmth, and gotten singed. Now crippled, they were trying to crawl up off the ground for the night, or take flight again. Hampered by their now useless wings, they could not.
Before my cat could investigate further, I scooped up all three of the moths. After helping them hang from my overshirt, I closed the barn up for the night. I wasn't sure what to do with them, these three little creatures whose lifesparks were guttering. I could just return them to the ground, now that I had shut the door, or put them in the woodshed up on the wood, off the ground. But either choie wouldn't save them.
It took me only a few seconds to decide what to do.
Putting the two smaller moths in my right hand, and the largest in my left. I slowly walked out to watch the sunset. There was a breeze promising rain to come, and it was enough to lift the wings of the moths so that they fluttered. A few times in our slow walk, the breeze was enough to lift them off my hands, and they would slowly flutter to the ground. I would gently pick them back up and keep walking. I finally made my way to the crest of a small hill, and placed them on a bush with many leaves. That way they could feel the wind, and yet would be safe until their strength ebbed, and it was time to fall. I told them that I hoped they were content, feeling the air under their wings, and that I would remember them. By then the sun had set, and I headed home slowly with my cat.
The next evening while walking my dogs, I stopped by the bush where I had left the moths. Two of the moths had fallen, and died overnight, and the ants were recycling their remains. The third moth, the largest, had died as well, but his body remained clinging to the bush, still moving ever so slightly in the light breeze. I left him there, and continued home.
Oftentimes there is nothing you can do to prevent life ending. Everything lives and dies as part of the natural process. But in those last moments there is always some act, some small thing you can do before life is over to comfort and calm. Sometimes it’s a word, a caress, or a gentle smile. Sometimes it’s giving a moth a last memory of the night wind beneath its wings.
Sunset
It was the end of midsummer, and the first signs of the coming winter could be seen. I was walking to the barn to close it up, enjoying the night air with one of my cats and reflecting on the work done that day. The days were getting shorter, and the flowers were beginning to wane. But there was still enough green and warmth and wildlife left to make me sigh with contentment. As I neared the barn, I saw something fluttering at the base of the door, which my cat was quick to check out. Several somethings, actually. They were Luna moths, a beautiful 4 inch or so larger moth with yellow, green, and white wings reminiscent of a fairy's wings. They had been flying some 50 feet above my heard near the 150 watt barn light, been drawn in by the warmth, and gotten singed. Now crippled, they were trying to crawl up off the ground for the night, or take flight again. Hampered by their now useless wings, they could not.
Before my cat could investigate further, I scooped up all three of the moths. After helping them hang from my overshirt, I closed the barn up for the night. I wasn't sure what to do with them, these three little creatures whose lifesparks were guttering. I could just return them to the ground, now that I had shut the door, or put them in the woodshed up on the wood, off the ground. But either choie wouldn't save them.
It took me only a few seconds to decide what to do.
Putting the two smaller moths in my right hand, and the largest in my left. I slowly walked out to watch the sunset. There was a breeze promising rain to come, and it was enough to lift the wings of the moths so that they fluttered. A few times in our slow walk, the breeze was enough to lift them off my hands, and they would slowly flutter to the ground. I would gently pick them back up and keep walking. I finally made my way to the crest of a small hill, and placed them on a bush with many leaves. That way they could feel the wind, and yet would be safe until their strength ebbed, and it was time to fall. I told them that I hoped they were content, feeling the air under their wings, and that I would remember them. By then the sun had set, and I headed home slowly with my cat.
The next evening while walking my dogs, I stopped by the bush where I had left the moths. Two of the moths had fallen, and died overnight, and the ants were recycling their remains. The third moth, the largest, had died as well, but his body remained clinging to the bush, still moving ever so slightly in the light breeze. I left him there, and continued home.
Oftentimes there is nothing you can do to prevent life ending. Everything lives and dies as part of the natural process. But in those last moments there is always some act, some small thing you can do before life is over to comfort and calm. Sometimes it’s a word, a caress, or a gentle smile. Sometimes it’s giving a moth a last memory of the night wind beneath its wings.
November 5, 2011
What Comes After
Now that I've introduced myself, tell me what I can do for you, my fans. Because this blog is really just for you, to give you more of what you're interested in. So please, tell me what that might be. Do you want some new writing in this space? If so, what kind? poetry? new flash horror fiction? links to my newest publications, and excerpts? Details about what I'm doing when I'm not writing, chainsawing wood, or saving animals from near disaster? Tell me what you want here, and I'll do my best to give it to you. I'll update with a new post each Saturday, after checking through any feedback I get from the previous week. Kind Regards, Tara Fox
The Beginning
Hi, my name is Tara Fox Hall. My writing credits include nonfiction short stories (usually recounting a true tale of saving wildlife--from snakes to moths to birds--from death or harm), flash, short and novella-length horror stories, and contemporary and historical paranormal romance. I also coauthored the essay “The Allure of the Serial Killer,” published in Serial Killers - Philosophy for Everyone: Being and Killing (Wiley-Blackwell, 2010). My first E-Book, Surrender to Me, was published in September 2011, with a second unrealted work, Return to Me, published in October 2011.
My website is www.tarafoxhall.com.
But you didn't come here to see what you could have found a dozen different places on the web. You came here for something new and exciting. And I don't aim to disappoint.
So here is a poem I hope you will find uplifting, even if you've had the day from hell:
HOPEFUL ANTICIPATION
The bright lamps have been turned low.
The conversation is light with the spice of alcohol.
Youthful adventures revisited, old movies remembered.
The wineglass is half-full.
Dinner progresses unhurried, the happiness of dessert to follow.
Music is at the corners, flavoring but not overpowering,
Peaceful, acoustic songs of generations past.
The sun has set, the many-colored afterglow lighting the sky.
A solitary bat flits by.
The mood is hopeful anticipation,
For the best is still to come.
My website is www.tarafoxhall.com.
But you didn't come here to see what you could have found a dozen different places on the web. You came here for something new and exciting. And I don't aim to disappoint.
So here is a poem I hope you will find uplifting, even if you've had the day from hell:
HOPEFUL ANTICIPATION
The bright lamps have been turned low.
The conversation is light with the spice of alcohol.
Youthful adventures revisited, old movies remembered.
The wineglass is half-full.
Dinner progresses unhurried, the happiness of dessert to follow.
Music is at the corners, flavoring but not overpowering,
Peaceful, acoustic songs of generations past.
The sun has set, the many-colored afterglow lighting the sky.
A solitary bat flits by.
The mood is hopeful anticipation,
For the best is still to come.
A Dog's Dreams
One of my dogs, Tawny, was adopted from Best Friends in Utah, as we wanted a puppy that was part shepherd, and there were none close by for adoption. She arrived at four months old and made a wonderful addition to our family, adjusting quickly. There was only one strange quirk: when she dreamed, she always growled in her sleep.
At first, I put this off as her getting used to her home. But as the weeks stretched to months, aside from the startling aspect (imagine watching TV, or just falling asleep in bed, and you suddenly hear this menacing growl from a few feet away), I began also to worry about Tawny. Whatever she was dreaming about repeatedly had to be horrible. What was hardest was that I could not protect her from the demons from her past that haunted her dreams.
Often, the best healer is time.
As the months stretched to years, Tawny growled less. Now the dreams included some soft barking (wuff...whoof...), too. When one year became two, Tawny stopped growling all together in her dreams. Now they are filled with soft woofing only, and growls are reserved only for playtime, when her companion dog steals her toy.
At first, I put this off as her getting used to her home. But as the weeks stretched to months, aside from the startling aspect (imagine watching TV, or just falling asleep in bed, and you suddenly hear this menacing growl from a few feet away), I began also to worry about Tawny. Whatever she was dreaming about repeatedly had to be horrible. What was hardest was that I could not protect her from the demons from her past that haunted her dreams.
Often, the best healer is time.
As the months stretched to years, Tawny growled less. Now the dreams included some soft barking (wuff...whoof...), too. When one year became two, Tawny stopped growling all together in her dreams. Now they are filled with soft woofing only, and growls are reserved only for playtime, when her companion dog steals her toy.
