Epiphany

by Sim Graves

     Our steps began in a random fashion. He sniffed the wintry breeze and I walked along not appearing intent on anything particular. As the distance from home increased, things changed.

     I, in my Stetson hat and long black leather coat, began taking longer strides and keeping my vision on the horizon. My dog's gaze was likewise. Our concentration was out before us, out toward the unknown.

     Now our gates were synchronized. The leash was loose and we moved swiftly. Like a wolf-pack stalking caribou through a deep Northern forest, we moved past the snow-covered scenery. The unison between my walk and his trot was more than just chance. It was a reflection of a fully defined relationship. “Till death do us part?” No question! Our roles as companions and friends needed no pause for thought. We were two, together and “On The Hunt.” We were in a timeless movement of man and dog with a purpose. Life flowed in and through us commingling our spirits and souls. We were the wolf-pack, we were the eternal movement of life. It seemed as though this hunt could go on like that forever. The movement was all. We were movement and the hunt.

     We caught sight of the quarry all too soon. It was dispatched with a cunning professional grace. And now, the trophy was carried between us. The gallon of milk wrested from the deep wilderness of the seven-eleven swung between us as we made our casual walk home. In its plastic bag it took on an unreal character like the head of some great beast. The handles of the bag flopped over to resemble ears and its weight was obvious as we carried it home.

     Our mood was not of the same intent and purpose now. It was the relaxed saunter of two companions celebrating a job well done.