Old Man

Jake's been running in his sleep, bouts of heavy breathing, toenails scrabbling the floor. He's an old man now, probably 14 or 15; we're not sure. He came to us by a circuitous route (a yard sale was involved) so we don't know how old he was when he got here. We guessed him at 2 or 3 and that was 12 years ago. 12 years; lord. Where does the time go?

Jake sometimes hacks and coughs like an old pack-a-day smoker. His joints are stiff and it takes him a few seconds to get up off the floor. He has to position his hind legs right under his hips before pushing himself up with a groan. He is deaf as a post, has no interest in chasing prey, and can sleep for 10 hours at a stretch, but when he sees me getting my shoes on, he's ready to go. I never have to ask him twice; hell, I don't have to ask him at all; he sees me putting on my shoes and heads for the door. He's still game, old Jake.

There's a big heron fishing Cottonwood Creek. Jake scared it up off the creek while we were walking. Huge and prehistoric, it climbed into the air like a big man swimming, circled three times overhead and flew downstream. We've seen a couple of 5-6 inch steelhead this year, but they won't last long with that monster working the banks.

Cold air blew down off the mountain yesterday. Smaller fronts siphon down the creek bottoms and rise up of an evening, the cold air breathing out of the mouth of the creek. This front came blowing over the mountain top like a freight train, lifting the wind and twisting the trees. The temperature dropped 20 degrees from one day to the next. We made a fire. Old Jake slept in his bed by the hearth and dreamed of running.