You.

I remember you. I remember you laughing, and walking, and sleeping, and smiling, and talking. I remember you listening. I don't remember not remembering you - you are in my earliest memories, and in photos before I can remember, you are in my car tonight as I drive home.

I remember sitting across from you with my heartbreak story on the table between us, held in by two glasses of whiskey, and you saying, "I think we should drink these until we fall over." I remember you fixed everything with that one sentence. (and an $80 bar tab). I remember you never let me pay for our meals. I remember the sound of your breathing. I remember what it sounded like, right before you start to talk. The air always seemed charged with your energy, your vibrancy, your joy. I remember joy was a physical thing around you. It picked you up in a crushing bear hug, it carried you along.

I remember the way the faint lines of your cheek curled up to meet the folds of your ear, a rosebud pink. Your big hands. I remember you dancing in the kitchen. I remember your gratitude. I remember your patient enthusiasm when I discovered something you'd learned decades earlier. I remember your infinite compassion. I try to reenact it, but it always seems forced, not my natural state. I remember you saying it is work. But you have to work at it. It's work that is worthy of the effort. I keep working.

This is the night...

Is it too good to be true? Could it be? Today, things are clicking in place. The sun is shining, I'm not too tired, my back's not that sore, I leave work on time, and make the hour-long drive in 54 minutes, even with construction dudes on the road. I get home, and supper is ready. Like, coming out of the oven ready. Fish, rice, vegetables. Awesome. For once, I head out with the dogs for their extended evening walk, with a full belly and an empty bladder. I have a new book in hand, and for once, time to read it. After we cross three fields, I lag behind, leaning against a boulder with my book, enjoying the sun on my back, while they run off with their noses down and searching for treasure. I look around and think, This is the night. This is it. First time in forever, I don't have to be anywhere, meet anyone, pick anyone up. First night there's no visitors in the driveway when I pull in, no phone calls to return, no supper to make. This is The Night. The night I:

- pen my novel, longhand;
- compose notes to my favourite people, from my old desk in the office I've designed, yet never sat in;
- work out, and throw in some ab work just for good measure;
- finally decide what I want to be when I grow up.

But first, I'll just sit here and...breathe. I turn my face to the sun, and as I inhale deeply, I hear the sound of two dogs pounding and panting towards me. Two dogs reeking of whatever carcass they've found, and rolled in. This is the night. The night I demolish my bathroom wrestling with 250 lbs of dog and a bottle of shampoo. Sigh. Maybe tomorrow.

The Underrated Dog

Ok, this is the story of the underrated dog. Johnny. Or, as I can often be overheard calling him, The Knothead. (On account of his unending hyperactivity, and uncanny ability to be in your way, no matter where he steps.) Now, I am the owner of a glorious, regal, gallant Great Dane, named Frank. But this is not about him. Although there will be puh-lenty of him in the months ahead, rest assured. Rich has grown mighty weary of listening to me quote the CKC's guidelines regarding danes: "preference MUST be given to the deep golden fawns." Ok, I'm pretty sure it was in reference to judging the fawn coloured variety and not positioning on the couch, but I'm not above paraphrasing and cherry-picking data to suit my agenda. But I digress.

This story is about Johnny. As I summoned up the energy to walk from the computer to the fridge for a drink, I happened to look out the kitchen window. Sitting on the cold, hard cement step of the garage, is Johnny. Patiently. Watching. Rich is busy building a truck in the garage, and Johnny believes it's his job to wait for him. As I watched, Johnny continued to sit. Now, Rich and Johnny went out about 2 hours ago, so I'm thinking, man that dog's got tough buns. Then I thought, if that was Frank unattended, he'd have lasted all of 20 seconds, before tearing across the road to the neighbours, causing major traffic upheaval and not giving a backward glance, even with me bellowing behind him. Good old Johnny. We never think of him taking off, in fact, we never think of him at all. The essence of a good dog, I guess, is that he never crosses your mind, because, well....he's a good dog.

Now, I love my deep golden fawn prince who is at this very moment sprawled, drooling, across my newly washed bedding, but I did slip on my shoes, zip up a sweater, and run out to the Underrated Dog, to give him a good rubbing and tell him what I really thought of him: he's a Good Boy.