Tonight, Venus. Tomorrow, The World

He
hates
the
rain.
He
can't
pee.
He
can't
poop.

He can't curl up on his favorite chaise lounge outside on the balcony watching for critters, for coyotes while licking himself head to toe and all points in between.

Whoa! Wait a minute; that could sound so wrong, sorry! It’s all G-rated. "He" is Arrow, my Border Collie mix, a rescue dog, sweet as Tupelo honey and smarter than your average bear. It's just that he's a woeful wimp when it comes to the rain. If he can't go for a walk, he plants his snout on his outstretched paws, pouts, sighs loud enough for me to hear and engages in a stare contest as if I have the power to go out and part the dark clouds for him.

I'll peek through the curtains and doors regularly out of compassion for my poor pup, put my hand up and feel the air for moisture, debating the size of the drops if they come, the rate, the space in-between and how quickly he might be able to get his duty done while suffering the least amount of collateral damage. Tonight, he was in luck.

When you see an opportunity, seize it, don't wait for a better one, that's our motto, mine and Arrow's, that and when you gotta pee, you gotta pee. So when we heard the silence, and you do hear it, tested gingerly the atmosphere for the elements and saw only the length of a smooth, dark, glistening street ahead of us, we burst through the front door and out into the crisp night at a gallop, minding the run off, the puddles soaking our feet and proceeded to complete a most worthy mission.

It's in those moments that Arrow becomes King for A Day, ruler of the roost, navigating his damp frontier like Vasco de Balboa, befriending the bushes with his John Hancock and leaving me trailing close behind amidst a street of steaming leaves. He never lets on that only a few minutes before his wet nose refused to pass beyond even the threshold of our safe-house for fear of his old arch enemy - the rain. At once he becomes his natural canine self, happy, as am I, empowered and relieved in every sense of the word.

The air smells sweet, elusive, something to savor like a delicacy in this combustible town. Its gray blanket has lifted. Even a hint of deep blue pokes through and within it, one bright beacon of light like a laser and it finds me. Venus, how beautiful and proud you look alone above, determined and shining, paying no mind to this weather.

We share a moment together and in that moment, we make a private resolution, a promise, a pact: Tonight, now that we’ve shared this quiet connection, you’ve agreed to be my muse, Venus, if tomorrow I agree to see my world illuminated in just as clear a light, as full of the romance that I’m compelled to project onto you. I agree to walk upon this Earth in the daylight, to succumb to its embrace, to see it within me, grounding me and to realize it as my own, to know that I am not just on it, but of it, that I am it, the Earth, as much as you are Venus.

With due respect, with the inspiration of your good grace, my distant muse, tomorrow night I’ll return in trail of the Wonder Dog to this sweet spot marked in red, "'X' You Are Here", and search for your brave face. And I will shine as brightly back, just as proudly, with as much clarity and determination as you’ve shone down upon me. I’ll light your sky in kind enough to allow you this same clear vision as would a mirror from a still pond reflecting, quietly awaiting a solitary breath, a singular pebble to make a ripple, to reveal this space between connecting us and give it purpose: that one twinkle in the dark of night, one whisper on the breeze can become an invitation to another man and his dog out walking to awaken to his moment, to the opportunity to stop, to recall a sense of wonder and look up.