Sometimes, Angelo and I will slip out in the middle of the night, leaving Klinger to her purring and sleeping, and go for a dark walk...

We’ll start out walking together, first with his look of, ‘I can’t believe we get to do this at night!’ and then he’ll hear/scent/see something that captures his attention, and I’ll hear the soft pads galluping off to my left or right, the rustle of the sage against his smooth coat. Sometimes, like tonight, the crunch of snow accompanies him.

My feet, bigger and clumsier, make audible cracks in the snow and ice.

I’ll speak to him about the names of the stars... Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, reminding him of his courage when he treed one of those ursa minors. I’ll point out Canis Major and SIrius, the dog star, and assure him that he is bigger and stronger and smarter than either.

I tell him the story of Orion and his hunting dog, and how the star we call Sirius was known even in Chinese astronomy as the celestial wolf.

Angelo grunts agreeably, assuring me this astronomy lesson is most interesting, but may we walk just a little faster please?

In the dark, I feel the press of his head against my knee, knowing that he is marking me with his scent, to make it easier to find me...

I tell him of the night, one of the nights, when I was looking for him, and how when my voice was hoarse from shouting his name, I looked up at Sirius, and I saw a falling star, going right across the brightness of Sirius. I mention that various cultures see falling stars as either good or bad luck, and how I didn’t know which interpretation applied that night.

I tell him that any time he is with me, it is good. I hear him stop ahead of me. No crunching of snow from him. I catch up to him, and then my feet stop in silence as well.

We gaze at the moon together. Somewhere in the distance, we hear a lone coyote howl. He returns to my side, now sniffing where he rubbed his head earlier, as if to make sure it’s really me.

I kneel. I put my arm over him. I feel his cold nose on my ear. And we sit for a few seconds, man and dog, staring at the moon, at Sirius, at Ursa Minor, or sometimes, Mars or Venus.

Then I whisper, Let’s go home!

And we are off, him at a fast gallup, me at a steady pace. When I finally catch up with him at home, he’s either at the door (if it’s cold), or in his secret sagebrush ‘cave’ that he has cupped out into a little hollow through his years of napping there...

Sometimes he doesn’t even wait for my Come on in! as I open the door, and sometimes he comes along reluctantly. I rub his head, and I savor the smell of dog and sage brush intermingling.

And I marvel, as I have a thousand times before, at the companionship of dog and man.

And I know I am lucky. And I know he is lucky. And I know just how fragile companionship of any sort can be. But just for now, I revel in its glory.

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