by Kimberley Harper

(Editor’s Note:  Kim is Kris Munson’s cousin, and is owner of two young Airedales, “Heri” (Sequoia’s Starwalk With Me), bred by Karel and Kathy Daniels, and “Sunny” (Live Strong Sunbeam’s Busy Day) bred by Kris Munson.  Attendees at last year’s Great Western may remember the ebullient Heri’s antics in the puppy classes.  It sounds as if he hasn’t lost his puppy spirit.)

Last night I woke to the slow roll of distant thunder with Sophie’s shivering weight pressed into my side. Looking over the edge of the bed I could see Tucker pacing back and forth before the open doorway to the dogs’ backyard. No sight of Heri. No sound of Heri. Uh-oh.

I tried for a moment to stay in bed, telling myself that it was never anything, that Heri was always fine. Which is usually true. It’s what Heri gets a hold of that is often not fine. Head filled with visions of paper-strewn floors and up-ended house plants, I dragged myself out of bed and shook off my drowse. Instead of finding mischief I found a dog, dancing.

Heri was out in the yard gazing up at the sky. As sheet lightning flowed across the entire horizon, he reared up onto his back legs, threw up his forepaws and bounced. He launched himself up and down, ears flapping, leaping and twisting with each flash, joyfully barking back to the rumbling growl of thunder. The movements he made were gestures of greeting, of great celebration, the same dance he unfurled in my honor every time I left his sight and returned to him. The dance was originally born of compromise– he couldn’t stand not to wiggle, paw and leap when greeting anyone, and we couldn’t stand to get pummeled every time someone walked down the long drive to retrieve the mail or come visiting. So Heri danced, forefeet thrown out and over his head toward his welcomed one, laughing mouth half-open, strong back legs propelling him in porpoises of happiness and energy, circling and circling but never quite touching.

I thought Heri would come in then, but when I peered out the open door he was watching something, ears up, head cocked to one side, sitting in the dust under the old pine trees. Very deliberately he reached out and ripped a small branch off the tree, and pranced with arched neck and lifted feet across the yard, waving the fringy needles, showing off for something or someone I couldn’t see. He dropped his branch at the far corner and ran to the center of the yard, bouncing up in happy salute to the unseen one. Then the wind freshened, replacing our house under a solid dome of clouds. Thunder rumbled back in, lazy with distance. Lightning redrew glowing lines against the dark. Once again Heri launched into his version of polite but barely contained embrace, dancing around and around in happiness, rushing over once to shove me with his nose and say “aar-errgh!”, before returning to laugh up into the night sky.

Watching him in the night, I heard again the soft rustle of his true name whispered across a moonlit dream, “Starwalk With Me.” What was the dog of mystery doing? Who did he greet and celebrate with, out under the lightning-torn sky? I don’t know. I know they were not a threat, for young though he is, he takes our guardianship seriously, as I’ve seen time and again on our road trips. The desert finally took back its storm for keeps, just as dawn began to brighten our valley’s edge. Heri came in and sank with a dog-like “errr” onto his corner of the bed, barely (but always) touching his back to my bare feet.

This morning he is no magic thing, but all young dog and full of himself. As a matter of fact, he is on my butt-head list, having passed up his dish and started the day by eating a brand-new $37.00 roll of postage stamps, inconspicuously waiting their turn next to my stack of unpaid bills.

Why couldn’t he have eaten the bills, instead?