lucy wightman

Sewn in and I am not finding the seams here in the fog. As if my head didn’t keep itself company enough, now visual options are outside this big ball of gray fuzz. There must be a word that means more than lonely, something more chronic and not solved by company.

Winkle is an expression, an emphasis in motion. A seizure was a response to angry, deep yelling and more departures, this after finding long refuge under the couch. Extreme reactions are called for when I am not paying attention well. His brain freezing yap is for what he needs for his little dog self. But for this, the communication must call to a halt everything familiar and be bigger than any explanation point.

Winkle is freeing up, bouncing along on little red poodle legs, sniffing salty tree stumps or planks brought in by stormy days.. Over the left wither I get a rhythmic glance in step with his trot. Winkle’s watery brown eyes beam in on my right hand pocket, the customary request for “ball-in-pocket” assurance.

Amidst audible sniffs and three exploratory paws at the sandy seaweed, Winkle stands upright, neck braced, his nose flaring at the flaps. The ears rise to form a triangular, squared shape of anticipation and glee until he meets with some surety his target of distraction. It is a tall man dressed all in navy blue or black, his hands stiffened into his pockets at the top of the sand, taking several steps like some robot. Winkle assesses the rock mass between him and the man, continuing to sniff, interrupting to look up with a contained excitement and anticipatory optimism.

The man moves closer, realizing I will not lead Winkle out of safety by going into the pit of heaping rocks or towards this man. Winkle’s tail beats the air, his dog heart clear and in the moment. There is no agenda or wish other than to be recognized, and/or patted. The man and I walk side by side for a time while Winkle serpentines, sniffing, glancing, and pretending there is nothing different in this moment of now.

Winkle studies me while he moves forward. Maybe he wants to know what I want, or to be sure of things. Eventually the man turns, walking back towards his standing place. Winkle braces with interest, looking at him, then surveying me, like slow-motion tennis, all the while continuing ground level investigations.

Watching Winkle wish over his curly shoulder while trotting forward is so uncomplicated. Burdens have landed on such a willing, delicate back that, over time, it could become customary, chronic, or something more than that.

Update on Jul 26, 2009 at 2:49 PM by Lucy Wightman

Winkle is a very smart little man