They took off along a new, local trail for a jog on the morning

of their nineteenth wedding anniversary, having had

fifty-years of marriage experience combined before their late

spouses died, very, very, young. They hadn’t been

able to jog at this particular trail all summer because part

of the wetland trail had been under water. This

day, their Chocolate Lab led the nine a.m. jog along the now

mostly dry trail. Wearing bug spray (including the dog),

they ventured forth with as much adrenaline flowing as what

might have flowed through the veins of world-class

adventurers to places north and south to the poles, up McKinley

and Everest, down the Amazon. He was glad

he had his compass because they got lost a time or two along

the way on what was supposed to be an easy,

straight, out and back path, but which, in reality, wasn’t marked

very well and which, in another reality, was just fine with

them because they loved the feeling of being lost if only four miles

from their home. When they made it back to the

parking lot, they high-fived, kissed a sweaty kiss and slapped a

congratulatory slap on the Chocolate Lab’s butt.