by underswansea


Smoke in the sky. August should turn and get cooler. Lisa says she can feel it. The tourists are unrelenting. It’s good, they say. They buy stuff. I’m tired of arguing. They do buy stuff. It is undeniable. I shouldn’t complain, it only takes me 10 min to escape the ruck of the valley.

My dog is sick. She is old. She has cancer growing under her ear on her neck. I’ve been in and out with her. She comes over and wags to get my attention and then leads me outside. She paces like she hears thunder. I couldn’t tell her anything that would make a difference, even if she understood. It is tough watching a being getting ready to die. There is nothing to be done. She has settled down on my winter jacket I’ve put down for her.


We like to say animals don’t understand death, but what we mean is we don’t know how animals understand death. That is a human trait, to disregard things we can’t understand. They see it coming as surely as we do. We try to live in such a way as not to fear it, then we thrash away at the end. It’s because life is precioius. If I know anything, that’s the way it is supposed to be.

Slinky has settled. Tomorrow we will walk up Windermere Creek. She will still hear and smell mice under the moss and deadfalls. She won’t go after them like she used to. She will dig and smile

I am not going to say it is sad to see. It’s what happens.