The Ten P.M. Walk

On Tuesday, they had to euthanize their

twelve-year-old Chocolate Lab.


On Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday

at ten p.m. and perhaps for every evening

in the foreseeable future for


however long it would take, the man picked

up his mesquite hiking stick and his 225

lumen, compact flashlight


and headed down the stars of the condo

to walk his dog.  He made his way

through the back parking


lot with a lighted hill on his left leading to the

upper swimming pool and condos on his right.

He watched the blue, flickering light


in some and wondered if any of the darkened

condos were in foreclosure. He listened

to the sounds of the fountain


as he passed.  The cascading water reminded

him, in a small way, of home and the waves

of Lake Michigan where his dog


had loved to romp. Periodically, he would

depress the button of the flashlight

half-way to spot flash along


the hill.  Once he spooked a coyote at rest.

At the end of the parking lot, the trail

began which led to an underpass


and access to the mountain preserve where his dog

had loved to hike. He pushed the on button

all the way down so the flash


stayed on. As he walked to the bench that sat along

the trail, the light created shadows on the shrubs.

It never failed to stop him in his tracks.


He scanned on down the trail, the wash in front

of him and the darkened hill in the moonless

night behind him. He looked for


signs of javelina boars with tusks, sows and their

piglets and packs of coyotes. “Oh, Boomer, where

are you, buddy?  You’re supposed to be


here so we could protect each other.”  The man turned

and slowly walked back to the condo.



3 thoughts on “The Ten P.M. Walk

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