I want to be like Scotia.

I want to pause in the woods on a cold night and stand at the edge of the darkness, sensing forward with my whole body. I want to see-hear-smell-taste-feel every nuance of the night, its mystery and promise.

(Can anything be more alive than a dog is in that moment?)

I want to run with her when this pregnant and sensing pause becomes an exuberant charge forward. No fear or questions, no careful pacing or holding back for later, no hierarchy of goals, no calculations or considerations or implications, no past or future or any awareness of time beyond the simple now.

Only the perfect bright clarity of movement.

I want to forget (just for a moment, only every so often), that we aren’t dogs, forget this blessing and curse of memory and imagination, of warranted fears and our constant need to plan and prepare and improve.

I want to lie down panting at the end of an outing, exhausted and content, and feel no urge to analyze this effort or contemplate the next.

I want my legs to twitch and my tail to wag as I sleep.

And when I waken back into my humanity, I want to be better for the sojourn — I want to bring some element of vital caninity back with me. I want lasting and useful connection with my native dog-heart.

I wish that for all of us.

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