Every morning, we approach  Fate’s meadow on our walk. She walks up the rise, she always turns and looks back at us, as if seeking permission. We say nothing, or nod, and she takes off into the meadow. You had your chance to stop me, she says, I’m off now. The meadow is a poem, I think, a reverie, perhaps one of the spiritual homes of dogs.

I think there is much mysticism surrounding dogs, I want to wrote about it more. The meadow is a mystical dog place, I think the spirits of departed dogs live there, they run with Fate.

Fate vanishes over the rise, if I look closely, I can see her running freely and joyously through the grass, popping up there, here. I am beginning to think she has a dog lover out there, she seems so happy running through the tall grass, listening carefully for the squeal of chipmunks and the rustle of rabbits.

Or may it is the spirits of the dogs who have passed.

May I?, she asks. Of course, of course. It is a gift to see such a joyous spirit running  free.