I see you through the glass plane sleeping in solitude with your golden head placed on your paws.  You curl your body a little with one hind leg stretched out over our auburn deck.  Such sweetness you show, so calm and unaware of my quiet approach.  I kneel beside your golden nose which twitches, your brown eyes slowly open and  I offer my hand to your curious sniff.  You recognize my scent and twist your body on its side stretching your limbs out and opening your belly to my touch.
I press my hand across your soft and golden fur, tenderly as I pass over those tumors you've carried so long and you stretch with ecstacy pushing all the way to your paws. I lie my body down on the cold hard deck and look into your big brown eyes,  I see you're smiling deep inside and  I am afraid you will die.  I let my tears form and see you rise standing your golden figure over me and against blue skies.  You hold your head beside the sun which sends pure white streaks across my sight where my tears have clung to my lashes.  You hold it with such care as to suggest you are incredibly wise.  Together we live this February day and, forever, hold this piece of time.
      
   
   

    "Want to go on a walk."  Nothing out of this old dog, I think.  Storm water starts, showers, mists and gusts.  Hunter's gun sounds, suggesting lightning as does the great sun atop the clouds radiating the storm. 
She, now standing, looks at me then motions her head.  "So you do want to go for a walk?"  She remains only partially excited as she walks out the door and into the garage.  I, approaching theatrically slow, incite her to speak. 
    "Are we going?" she asks with rolling grumbles and whines.  Not to the mountains, we'll walk to the end of our suburban street.  I stoop to put on her leash and collar.  As I tie it her breath tightens and I cannot loose it more.  Instead, I set them away.
    Rhythmically, the winds and rain stimulates our skin with sudden sharp beatings.  All we must do is breath, we who already die.  Nike turns her head backwards, left then right, to check my pace.   Her spine stays slightly curved, rigidity has taken her.  Beneath her wavy threads of golds and browns her hips are turning to stone.  Still, she steps thirty-five feet ahead and distantly respects me.  I am upset that she will not heel. I don't want to order her around. Casting upset aside in the name of enlightenment I quicken my pace. 
    At the end of the road I look across the high-fenced pasture where brown stallions stand together.  Their strong forms remain perfectly still as the rain bounces from them.  Sniffing around Nike does not enter.  Her nose, my eyes.  The Wasatch range towers over the pasture, barn, and row of pines into cloudy skies. 
    She shits in some open yard where a car suddenly pulls up. The woman parks slow looking at us.  The sky threatens with an enormous boom.  We are both too damn unkempt for this suburban Mormon.  Fearing waste of our time I run.  The clouds pour. 
    Nike points her nose straight and loosely holds her open mouth.  With great breaths she strides long and fluent.  The skin of her snout tightens all the way to her shoulders and they, pushing back, flex her thick golden fur.  The stones turn to wheels and send her rolling forwards over the concrete walk. Happily, she keeps pace seeing me from the side of her eye.  When we approach the door we breath heavy and walk.   Nothing like a good pure run.