Camp

Restless. The dog and I. The bags are packed, unpacked, checked again before stuffing everything back in. I even cleaned the gun again, not that it needed it from the last time I passed oil and swab through the barrels. Anything to keep from idle hands.¬†She keeps looking up at me, pacing. Looking out the window, through to the next room and out that window, too. She knows… we both have this sense of hurryup nervousness.

“Work” is a sham. I click through e-mail, checking it back to unread… the silent acquiescence. It’ll wait ’til Monday.

The truck backs into the drive and we start loading up. The dog is standing at the screen door barking. Something not in her normal repertoire. It’s the high-pitched, “Hey, look at me. Don’t you forget me!” bark. If the door wasn’t heavy I fear she’d burst through it.

One last task; stop and water the grass. OK, kennel. And in a flash shes battened down and peering through the grate with purpose. Time to go.

The leaves are coming down, the mornings frosty, and the thunder of wings and the twitter of feathered knuckle balls await, Grouse Camp.