Wildflower PATRICK LEWIS
When I was fifteen, my half-brother asked me to look after his dogs. He was going to a wedding in Michigan—which was two time zones west—and needed someone competent and reliable to make sure they were walked and fed. I was his last choice. He handed me their leashes with ill-concealed trepidation and a long-suffering sigh. He made polite, circumspect noises to the effect of “I’ll be back in a week; don’t screw this up.” The dogs and I watched the tires of his old raised-roof pickup truck kick dust into the July afternoon as they spun away. I was fifteen and spending a bored summer in rural Vermont, so I was glad of the company. I found fetch to be a wonderful antiseptic against midsummer ennui. The dogs were lovely. One was old, ruddy-coated and steady, with a tongue that hung down like a rusted muffler. He would plop himself down at your feet and make off-puttingly humanoid whining noises when you stood up, moved, or looked at him funny. This was Gus. Truly a man’s best friend, with all the exasperation that term implies. But the other one was young—a bouncing, joyful thing, a gamesome furball in the prime of life. I would often find her aflutter in fields of tallest grass, bouncing above the verdant strands to view the path ahead, then bounding forth again. This land-dolphin’s name was Soma, and she quite stole the show from her companion, Gus. Vigorous and athletic, she would go tumbling off in pursuit of the latest smell, sound, or thrown object, before returning with bobbed tail wagging and face begging for approval. A princely dog this was, the proud scion of a noble doghouse. Towards the end of the week I got them into the car and drove to a trail that ran parallel to a tributary of a larger river. I had a dog whistle and two leashes, which I fastened to their collars. I led them down the path into the woods. agave review • 19
