As I grapple with ideas for a developing story my Norwegian Elkhound pup, Thora, gnaws on a non-rawhide chew and occasionally gives chase to a new idea.
Elkhounds are an ancient breed with fur the color of spilled ink: black, gray, silver and white.
Thora will be a year old at the end of May. She is exuberantly sweet and energetic, with a continuing penchant for chewing the ends of rugs, pens and pencils and the base of my chair. She loves being in the office and curls up under the desk, gently nibbling at my feet when she thinks I’ve been ignoring her for too long. In typical Elkhound style she is very good at following commands – when she wishes to.
Between chapters, Thora reminds me to get up, move around, go outside and play fetch. With journal in hand, I find a place to perch and Thora nestles in next to me so that we can watch a ragged vee of geese bisecting the gray sky. When a gang of crows jubilantly cavort overhead, Thora runs below, not barking, but rather leaping and canting her head from side to side in consideration of their antics.
Together, we ferret out the scents of spring. We calibrate the sounds of rainfall and breeze and the meanings inside such whispers. We note the drift of clouds. And track the broken twigs of a new story.