Beside or behind us came our dogs, close as shadows, resembling us as familiars might: there was the old man with the bald head and his little schnauzer (he was a lawyer, I think, we’d met once in early morning), there was the pretty cafe owner, her dog a sleek mutt with brown eyes just the color of her master’s, and there, too, came I, springing my dog free for a jaunt in the field at an unexpected hour. With all twenty or so regulars in the field, we let the dogs off their leashes and watched.
The snow was gone by noon, unable to stand up to the New Mexican sun, as were the dog walkers. But I like to think we are a little less shy now. Or maybe I was only ever the one who was. At any rate, whenever I take my dog out to the field now, we are sure to see at least someone from that snow day, and sure too, to engage in conversation, about that freak storm, or a good vet, or sometimes about things having nothing to do with dogs at all. And it is nice to know there is a community of us, waiting behind house windows for the emptying of the field. Waiting to take back what is ours.
photo by Heather Herrman
