In the dark hours

I wake long before the sky goes light on the other side of the ridge, as I always do. Fritz has been lying still, watching me. I can feel his eyes on me. Ghost also looks for a sign. They are the youngest; they want to leave the lair now, empty their bladders, announce their strength to the coyotes who sometimes creep close and disturb their sleep. I open the door and release them; they will be back soon. It is dark, and they are not night creatures. They want the safety of the lair and won’t stray far.

Magnus notes their leaving but does not move. He is old and does not care for such games anymore. He wants to know an intruder is really there before he’ll rouse himself to challenge it. Plus, he has a bladder like a cistern.

There are no stars that I can see, but the moon shadows are sharp. No clouds behind the lair, then. It isn’t very cold, and I smell humidity. The wind is very light, just a breeze. It might rain, or it might not; the weather is still making up its mind and will probably change several times before settling down to one thing or another. I can wait.

I make coffee, roll a cigarette, pick up my book and wait for the boys to return. And shortly they do; muddy paws in mind, I’ve already pulled the spread across my bed to keep them off my sheets.

There’s something in the air this morning, or maybe only in my mind. Sometimes I can feel it, in the hours before light. It's familiar, but I don't know what it is. Something insubstantial; not coyotes or cattle or cats, but something stirs this morning. The dogs have a hard time settling back into their snooze behind where I sit at my table with my coffee and my book. Fritz growls off and on; I know the tone and he doesn’t know what he’s growling at. I try to settle their minds, sniffing the air myself, growling slightly, then relaxing and bending back to my book. It seems to help; I hear sighs and rustling and then silence behind me. Uncle Joel says there’s nothing to worry about. But there is something, and on mornings like this I can feel it. I don’t know what it is.

The dogs are relaxed now, but my feeling doesn't go away. Still one-legged, I feel vulnerable. I get up, go to my bedside, pull a clean pair of socks on my meat foot, and put on my pants, my left leg, and my boot. "Keep your clothes and weapons where you can find them in the dark," said Heinlein. He didn't say anything about body parts, but I assume they apply. Whole now and able to move if need be, I feel suddenly much better though there's still something out there.

Like the dogs, I can’t understand it. Like the dogs, I try to ignore it. We wait for the sky to brighten and for the desert to decide what it wants to do.