Hike

Bark Dog and Play Dog and I stand on our summit. A small summit. Hardly a summit. Not Everest. Not Denali. Not Kilimanjaro. Nothing of consequence, but a summit with a view of a frozen pond that thaws and becomes home to ducks and golf balls. Bark Dog notices a man below in the valley, base camp to our Matterhorn. Bark Dog runs towards Mr. Golf Man, ignoring my pleas to stop and return. Bark Dog reaches Mr. Golf Man and does what Bark Dog does. Barks and barks more. "I'll hit it," the man yells up. "You'll what?" I yell down. Then I see what Mr. Golf Man means as he shifts golf club (now weapon) from practice putt to dog skull. I reach base camp in time to position myself between bark and club (now weapon). Are you afraid of dogs? Yes, he's afraid of dogs. Small dogs. Big dogs. Bark dogs. Ball dogs. Play dogs. All dogs. "I run," says Mr. Golf Man. He runs marathons. (Mr. Run Man?) And when he runs, he runs from dogs because dogs bite people who run. I run (sort of) I say. Dog-bitten twice (not while sort of running) I say. Then Play Dog lands at base camp near Mr. Golf (now Run) Man. Play Dog starts to move in circles. Then more circles and circles and more circles, fast and crazy like beast full of earth energy after climbing peaks and traversing valleys. I circle Play Dog who circles Mr. Golf (now Run) Man, getting dizzy, missing Play Dog and nearly falling and landing my head on club (now weapon) while Mr. Golf (now Run) Man circles in reverse. "Stand still," I say to him. Play Dog thinks you're playing, playing circle games with club (now weapon), I say. Mr. Golf (now Run) Man sees my eyes, still and not circling or dizzying, and pauses, not running, not playing. Then I leap and capture two summit fueled beasts who bark and play (not golf).