Saturday, November 14, 2009
Camped on the Pig Trails last night. Weather.com predicted one to two inches of snow overnight. It was cold, but not too, too cold. I stayed up late, warm by the fire, sipping Bandit wine, reading "Of Mice and Men," waiting for snow, but no snow came. I thought about how my father told me I'd feel this way six months ago and how today he'd just say "I told ya so," and he'd be right. Joe meandered off. I woke up at six, still no snow, still no Joe. I made some tea and waited for the sun to rise. I packed up, bummed about no snow, walked the trail two miles back to the car, still no Joe. Fuck. Drove home, ready to make "Lost dog" signs, get home, Joe's asleep on the porch. In the middle of the night he decided he wanted to go home -- so he walked the three miles home, mostly along the road. We've jogged this path maybe three times. I'm not sure if he's brilliantly independent or retarded. He looked confused and lonely. "What took you guys so long?" I made coffee and took a shower. When I got out, it was snowing. We got about an inch before it stopped.