I dropped off some choice goods for the upcoming rummage sale to benefit the senior dog sanctuary. They set a record for proceeds last year and I want to do my part again to help raise funds for this special place and the remarkable woman who runs it.
As I write this in a notebook, I sit in the sanctuary’s back yard, surrounded by little dogs and a new resident named Short Stuff, a sweet old pit bull mix. Bonnie put in appearance for treats and a few rubs, but then retired inside the house.
Clyde on the mind. Clyde always on my mind here, alongside the river. So much happened to me with him and Bonnie on our countless walks. Everything started getting better for me after I met these dogs.
I donated some new power tools to the sanctuary to better attack the blackberries. I supposed I donated them to myself because I’ll be the one using them in the August counterattack.
The river is very low and I notice gravel bars. Here comes the sanctuary cat. He handles the canines with aplomb.
A breeze blows through the yard. Swallows dart around. There is nothing but the sound of the country.
I want to walk to my familiar spot on the river but Bonnie can’t make it that far anymore. After I write this, I will take that walk, alone, and see if anything new has sprung to life. Maybe I will write a bit the way I used to with Bonnie and Clyde by my side. I almost believe I learned to write a different way near the river, with them.
My mind returns to my river walks with the dogs. I wrote a 50,000-word book about them and wrote it on pure instinct, without any thought to form or marketability. Does anyone really care about this story? Am I deluded to think there is an interest in what happened to me and how I reanimated after an extinction? Who knows? All you can do is put the story out there and see where it drifts and perhaps lands.
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