The
first time Dog is brought to the cut field it is alien under her paws and the
straw monoliths strike a fear into her dog heart. She slinks the edge of it,
tail down. This second time, Dog perceives that there are birds to chase and she
is gone, lost in the joy of the chase. She is a grain of rice, a tiny
horizontal in the repetitive verticals of stalk. To the end of the field, full
tilt, disappears into the drainage ditch. I trust in her return. I wait and the
wind shakes my hair, flares my dress, breathes over my skin. There is warmth in
the touch of it. The tractor treads under my feet have a pleasing solidity.
When my speck of spaniel comes back, it is clear that the mud in the ditch is
half a Dog in depth. We trot back up the lane; the wind hollers overhead, turns
all Dog’s fur backwards.
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