Post #8: Year of the Typewriter | November 9, 2017
Petrichor: the smell of the earth after the rain. Especially after a long dry period.
For five years, I walked Mt Elphinstone with my old dog Reba, who died last March. I had gotten Reba second hand, but she had been well-trained to be off leash, and a beagle, lab, shepard mix she had endless patience for both long and difficult hikes and also days when vomiting babies meant that she just got booted into the backyard. A lovely sweet soul, and my constant companion. For months after her death, I felt I was walking with her ghost, I knew her in the forest so well, what she wanted to stop for. When she would lead or follow. I suppose in the last month now, perhaps in the passage from summer into fall, her ghost left me, and I have walked alone. And I began to feel that a new dog might be behind the next green rise in the road…
This is Petrichor. The downpour to my dog-dry heart. She’s a four-month old Anatolian Shepard. And all she wants to do is to be out in it. Agnes and I are her flock, and she wants to tend to us.
When I sat to write, Petrichor did slow concentric circles around us through the dense forest.
When she sits, on guard she is a rock in the shape of a dog.
But when I’m on the move she takes her turn to play. Here Petra discovers mud.
The joy of the forest awoken by this mighty puppy.