"She's as big as a cow!" Priscilla says of Silky Josephine. 

     She and Carl have returned. They were busy the first couple of days, repairing their nest over the back porch light. There was mudding to do, before the feathering, and while the it dries, we have a moment to talk. 

     Priscilla tells me about their trip, about Anna and Luis, and I tell her what little I know about the mysterious disappearance of Bobo, and of Silky's curious growth spurt, our present topic. 

     "One hundred and forty dollars worth of tests at the Doctor," I tell Priscilla, "and all we learned was that she's just regular old fat." 

     We had suspected ... even hoped ...that Silky might have an 'issue', something glandular that could be resolved with a pill. But that wasn't the case. Silky is perfectly healthy ... other than, as Priscilla says, being 'as big as a cow' ... only a slight exaggeration. 

     We watch her chase a bumblebee, leaping and spinning and snapping, as if she were as delicate and dainty as a butterfly, which, inside, Silky truly is. 

     "She doesn't get any more treats," I tell Priscilla, "and she'll get more exercise, now that it's warmed up and she can be outside." 

     "I can help with that," Priscilla says, and like a bullet, she's in the air, swooping and tittering, and Silky, her eyes wide with delight gives chase. 

     "She'll be slim as a willow switch in no time," I hear Priscilla say. And if anyone is equipped to imagine a slender Silky Josephine, I suppose it would be me.

                        

I doubt that I will ever stop looking to that field through which he wore a path going to and from his daily adventures, or that I will ever stop hoping, that through the Timothy and Sage, be it golden or green, I will see him return.



   

If you sleep at night with your windows open ...for it's that time of year again ...and you hear something crying in the darkness that may be a dog or that may be a boy, but either way, clearly has a heart, broken by the loss of a dear and wonderful friend, go to your window, if you would, and blow gently on this sorrow as it passes, and lift it to the ears for which it was intended, the love for which it longs.



      

Silky is in her Terrible Twos. 
     I know this because sometimes she runs off in a mostly straight line away from me, and keeps on running even after she’s too far to hear me calling for her to stop, which is a very long ways. 
   I know this because sometimes she tears up the emergency potty pads, and then has her emergency on the wooden floor. 
     I know this because she chewed the shoe molding trying to catch a ladybird that was on the ceiling. 
     I know this because I’ve filled the very holes that I instructed her not to unfill at least twelve times in the past three days. 
     I know this because I have blankets now with fringes that didn’t have fringes before. 
     I know too, that if it weren’t for Silky's Terriffic Twos, I wouldn’t make it through her Terrible Twos, and I’ll tell you about those next, just to be fair. 

As you might have guessed, Silky grew. Upward first ...taller. Then longways. Then outward slightly. Then upward a little more, which was promising, but she began to grow outward again, steadily, until she was noticeably more round than she was tall and long, and it was suggested that she might have an 'issue', one that would require a drastic reduction in her much loved treats, and ice cream, and any sort of feed that is even mildly palatable to the most deprived of dogs, which clearly, Silky is not. 




     

These nights, so cold, I reach for Peter Pan, a lucky coin, deep in the warmth of my pocket.

"There's a dog in the oven," Silky says. 
     She's standing at the oven's door, staring into its darkened glass behind which I know there resides only a thin cookie sheet and the cast iron skillet in which we make our breakfast. 
     "Silky," I say, seeing the sparkle of her eyes reflected in the glass. "It's you." 
     Silky is adamant. "No," she says, shaking her head, "There's a dog in the oven. I can see it." 
     "Silky," I say, "Wag your tail." 
     She does. 
     "Is the dog in the oven wagging it's tail?" I ask. 
     "Yes!" Silky says, "Yes!" 
    But it's clear that Silky believes that this is only some magical coincidence, and that she wants even more to let the dog inside  the oven come out so that the two of them can play. 
     "Silky," I ask, "Is the dog in the oven pretty?" 
     Silky studies her new friend. She tilts here head to the left and then to the right. "Oh yes," she replies. "The prettiest dog I've ever seen." 
     "Well that proves it then," I tell her, and come tap the nose in the glass. 
     And inside the oven, with the skillet and cookie sheet, happiness ignites on the face of the most beautiful girl in the world.