I think about it sometimes, that maybe it’s not the smartest thing. I’ve had runs go wrong before, after all. But if I didn’t run alone, when would I run?
I take the standard precautions. Phone in pocket. Hash whistle hanging from old flight attendant lanyard. Should I hear voices up ahead, I know every alternate trail. Wear a plain outfit. Never go the same way twice, the same day, or the same time.
But, of course, there’s no such thing as a guarantee.
It's a lonelier world tonight.
The pet cemetery, so recently expanded for Tiger, has expanded yet again.
We laid Gypsy's decomposed remains to rest on Saturday afternoon, under a gray sky with a west wind blowing. Popeye dug while I swiped at the hair sticking to my wet face. As best we can tell, Gypsy died weeks ago, somewhere around her second birthday.
Miss Gypsy. The kooky stumpy-tailed fuzzball who made us laugh. Who had the uncanny ability to become one with any blanket or pillow she sensed you wanted her to share. Mother of eight stumpy-tailed kittens before turning a year old herself. The little softie in the big wire cage at the vet’s office, due to be sent back to the animal shelter after her spaying.
Who would imagine such a puffball to be an intrepid explorer, to have a soul so dedicated to adventure?
Yet, there she was, at the door daily, demanding to be set free. But only until dinnertime. An explorer with an appreciation for home. A kindred spirit, for sure.
Any one of us, any day, could have our adventures go horribly wrong before supper.
I rode hard the next day on those three loops of the Swamp. Spinning myself and Killer up and over what seemed a hundred climbs, and thinking hard about Gypsy.
Adventures can go wrong.
But maybe not as wrong as never having any.
We will never know for sure.
Gypsy kept her secret life secret, all the way to the end.
Gypsy
December 2008 - December 2010
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