~ Excursion Into Over–Time ~
Recently, beautiful warm spring days gave way to the last reminder of winter’s brisk and frosty cold. Dad spent the day trying to brace and protect the fruit tree’s blossoms and other garden plants from oncoming nights of frost. The pack overall was disappointed with the weather and the fact we couldn’t bolt in and out of the open back door as we pleased.
I’ve been around here long enough to be assured the warm days will come, and shortly after that we’ll be seeking the cool of the house over the hot afternoons.
The two younger of our pack (Keira and Pru) decided to wrestle and mouth-measure over a bit of cardboard purloined from Mom’s office waste basket, and take over the living room with their hijinks. Tucker—our beloved sheriff of the pack and my senior brother—was stationed behind Mom’s office chair as she was tapa tapa tapa on her keyboard.
I decided to find a dark corner to curl up until the call for our one o’clock biscuit. Pru, then Keira, stopped by to see what I was up to, licking my muzzle in an attempt to get me to participate in what Dad calls their reindeer games.
Frantically licking my muzzle is not a way to get me to do anything; I really dislike my face being messed with. They tried though. One day they’ll realize how fruitless their efforts are. Maybe.
Finally, when left alone long enough, I drifted off. What seemed like seconds later, I found myself in a very real feeling dream.
Standing at a narrow, worn path and surrounded by tall summer grasses and flowers, I decided to wander down the path in front of me. I hadn’t gone far when the scent of flowers mingled with the scent of moving water.
Going a little farther, I came to small brook that was singing its song across long-worn rocks of different sizes. The sound was so soothing, I decided to forego exploring further and just sit and listen.
Just as I was settling down, a man’s voice said, “Come over here, little, for a bit.”
I was startled, as I hadn’t sensed any other living thing in this dream. I didn’t hear birds or insects or two-leggeds. I had assumed I was alone.
I turned my head to the direction the voiced had come from, and just up the brook a bit was an old man sitting on a granite rock. Long silver hair and beard, and a similar frame and posture like my pack-Dad, but I knew it wasn’t Dad.
It intrigued me that this man called me little, which is a moniker Dad uses with young or small animals that he hasn’t named yet. When I was a wee pup, he would check in with me and say things like, “What are you up to, little?”
I had forgotten how comforting and gentle that phrasing was, so I had no hesitation getting up and walking towards the old man on the rock.
The old man smiled and watched me approach to sit near him. He had the scent of a friend. Actually, his scent was like all the friends I’ve known in my life. He poured something from a little bag into his hand and pointed to the water.
I couldn’t help but wag, thinking he was going to give me some treats. Instead, he threw what was in his hand into the brook. The water’s surface came alive with thrashing faces of creatures I had never seen before as they gobbled up whatever he had thrown.
He laughed as I tentatively leaned towards the brook to see these mystery creatures as he tossed another handful into the water. Some had large heads with thick whiskers, others had rainbow-like colors on their side. Even though the water was clear like glass, there was so much happening so fast that I couldn’t take it all in.
One, with the rainbow sides, came close and stared at me for a moment, then spun away. His tail broke the surface and threw water at me.
I looked back at the man as he poured something fine and small from another bag into his hand and threw it into the air across the brook. Birds of all colors came from all directions and landed to peck about, eating what he had thrown.
One of the small blue and red birds flew to me and plucked a bit of hair from my backside as she went past. The old man stood up to pat my offended posterior.
“She likes that you’re here and wanted something to remember you by to put in her nest.”
He began walking back up the path I had come down and waved for me to follow. I wondered if this place had a name so I could tell Dad about it. As if hearing my query, the man said, “For you, you could call this place over-time.”
“Like in a hockey game? Are there penalty boxes, too?” I asked.
Dad on occasion would threaten to make penalty boxes for us on four legs if we didn’t stop doing certain acts of extreme annoyance.
We got to where my journey had started, and the old man told me it was time to go. “Tell your dad to remember to expect the unexpected and keep the big view.”
With that, he patted my side gently. A moment later, I was back home. For a fleeting moment, I could still hear the birds and the sound of the brook, then it all faded.
I leapt up and ran to find Dad still outside wrestling with fabric and twine, wrapping an apple tree. I skidded to a stop behind him and barked out the message I’d been given before I forgot it.
He dropped the twine and turned to me with the oddest look.
“Where on earth did you hear that?”
“From over-time land,” I replied, wondering if I had said something wrong.
“That was one of the rules my first mentor had when I was young and full of foolishness.” He looked at me questioningly.
“Like Pru?” I asked.
“Worse…much worse,” he said.
“What’s a mentor?”
“They’re like the trainer who came when we were fostering service dogs,” he answered, still looking deep in thought and puzzled.
I tried to imagine Dad on a leash, but just then I got sideswiped by Pru.
“Mom’s in the kitchen getting biscuits you old cur,” she declared. “Whadayawaitingfor?”
I turned to high-tail it for the pack’s one o’clock treat, but Dad said, “Wait. Tell where did you get that message?”
“Can’t talk now, Dad.” I was running to the back door. “Oh, and Pru took off with your twine.”
~ Hazel Bazel, Dreaming Rocket Dog ~
