scrapbook ovenbird My dog and I head out every day to smell the world, to spend an hour in each other’s company with our paws in the grass and our hearts strung together with a light blue nylon leash. He trots with his nose to the ground. I saunter with my face to the sky. He looks up at me, sometimes, as if to say, “did you notice the scent of coyotes in the tansy? Did you catch a whiff of the Brewer’s Blackbirds, sharp like the lemon of their eyes?” I answer by tossing him peanut butter treats. He knows when we’ve turned to head for home. Some beacon in his blood tells him that his body is pointed towards the place where he rests his soft, brief bones. And as we make our return journey he begins to search for something to remember the day by. The thing is always a stick, and he is a connoisseur–rejecting dozens before settling on the one that is right. He’ll take anything from a splintered twig to a branch bigger than his eighteen pound frame and haul it home to place on the pile by the door. He gives each souvenir a careful look before selecting one, tasting the surface, getting a sense of the give between his teeth. He only does this when he’s with me. Other people have walked him, but he doesn’t bring a stick home on those outings. I think he is giving me a gift. I think he is making a tally of the hours we have spent loving each other in the silent way of animals. I make sure to show my appreciation. I say, “that’s a beautiful stick you’ve found today.” Some have been so lovely that I’ve painted their portraits in watercolour later, spending just as much time exploring the surface with my eyes as he did exploring with the lolling wet of his tongue. The pile by the door grows, a scrapbook made of bark and moss, a love story written on heartwood. 250810 what's it to you? who go blather from