Miles To Go

It is officially New Year's Day, as I sit here writing this. I have had a long day, and a short nap, and for some reason my mind is still awake.

I have had a *day*. First thing, off to the doc's for the usual 8am diabetes follow-up, which usually includes some kind of banter with my doctor. She looks older than I remember, and a bit tired. I've seen her for years. We have learned to put up with each other. Today, she asked me if was taking the new cholesterol meds that she gave me. Nope, I said, it makes my hands numb and I need my hands. She gives me the eye, and tells me that I really should be taking it. I am thinking about what I have to do later, and I pause before I answer her. I said no, I am not going to chase every shadow that comes my way. She hands me some free meds and I'm out the door. So far, so good...

I take my time. It is my day off, this New Year's Eve, and I only have this left to do. I remind myself that she is not really there, but she *is* really there and I have to go pick her up. I feel an urgency to get there, but I drag my feet. It's cold today, riding my bike to do everything, and I will put on some miles. I make my way to Corrales where she waits at the vet's. She is there. I almost wished she weren't, but then where would she be? Stupid questions, just get going while it's still warm enough not to freeze my fingers to the bone. I have a long way to go. A Robert Frost poem comes to mind - "Miles to go before I sleep." Many miles. I head home.

I hand her to my wife, gently, as if I were handling eggs. My wife won't be doing this with me, even though I know she would if I wanted her to. It is too many miles, and too cold to be riding a bike. Besides, I have to bungee a pick and shovel to where she'd sit. I can do this. I redress in my room, and see dirty socks mixed in with other dirty clothes. They are safe now. I take one of mine, first one I see, and then take one of my wife's - a dirty one with a hole in the heel. I put them in with her. She won't mind dirty socks. Never did before. Any sock was a good sock, as far as she was concerned.

I leave home for the second time, and head for Josie's Mountain. No good way to get there from here. I head north. I would tell you where Josie's Mountain is, except it wouldn't matter, and you couldn't find it anyways, maybe unless you lived here. Josie's Mountain is not the official name of the "mountain" we go to. I named it myself. You can do all kinds of stuff like that if you don't care about "official." I don't think it has a name, but it's falling down, and that's what we like. The mountain is constantly crumbling, and no one would ever be foolish enough to build there. That's a good thing, especially when you have lost count of how many dogs and ferrets you've buried there. (Josie was an old English sheep dog, who died unexpectedly. She was the first one buried on the mountain, so that's what we call it.)

I have to take back roads no matter how I go, so I figure I'll try the shortcut. Bad idea. Snow and mud are not your friend on a bike. My shoes and socks are now wet and muddy. I turn back and head north to almost Santa Fe where I have to make a U-ey and come back south on the back road. It is warmer, now, about 46 degrees or so, and my hands are cold but comfortable. I am not far from where we're going. This is the first time I'll be doing this by myself, but I know I can do this. She has to be with him. She and he came as a pair from two dingbat students who kept them in a garage. He died a few years back, but she made it to almost eight. I wonder if they will remember each other, and my mind distracts itself by asking itself more stupid questions. I see familiar rock formations. We are here.

I park my bike, and unpack. I have her and a pick and shovel to get over the fence without ripping my pants on barbed-wire, hopefully. The road, a winding two-lane, is busier than I remember it. I try hard to sneak in to the scrub, but it's a bit difficult to sneak a three foot long pick with a bright yellow handle anywhere. I don't want people thinking I'm stealing plants or rocks or Native artifacts, for Pete's sake. I hope no one stops. I'm not entirely sure the truth would be better. I listen for the silence on the road, and I make my way.

The temperature is above freezing, but there is snow in the shadows. The ground is not frozen, but soft and wet from the snow. My work is easier than I expected, and I am done in no time at all. It is time to do this now, I tell myself. Gently, I open her sleep sack, as if I might somehow awaken her. Stupid stupid. She looks as if she were sleeping, curled nose to tail. I put the socks underneath her so she'll be comfortable, and I think stupid stupid, but I do it anyways. That's the whole point of all the work of collecting those socks - to be comfortable, isn't it? I distract myself with the stupidity of my thoughts while I avoid the inevitable, but the tears come anyways. I hold her for a long time, and then I let her go. I tell her that my wife and I love her very much, and that I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm sorry about, but I say it anyways. It's what I said when I stroked her head at the vet's as he stopped her suffering. I didn't know then either, really.

Go find him, my little girl. He's close by, and I have to get home. It's cold, and I have miles to go before the sun sets and it gets even colder. My feet are wet and frozen, but I am at peace. I head home.

I get home, tired and numb, but satisfied that it is done. I tell my wife about the trip, and we cry a bit more. I go to my room to change out of my wet clothes so I can warm up. I sit on the bed as I change, and my wife comes in. She is gathering my wet clothes, but stops to tell me about the pile of socks underneath the bed. She has left the pile undisturbed for a few days now, not having the heart to move them. I smile and nod, and we look at each other and understand. We have been together almost twenty years, and there is a new year coming. Understanding just comes. After a short nap, I watch Anderson Cooper drop the ball in New York. Two more hours to go here. I listen to Art Bell welcome the New Year in different time zones. I have to work in the morning, but my mind is wide awake. I wonder when I will run out of clean socks. No matter. Any sock is a good sock.

I will miss my little sock thief, my blessed ward of St. Franky - the wonder ferret who escaped twice and was returned to us by grace both times. I thought she would always be here. That's what luck will do to you, I guess. Make you stupid. I am just getting tired, glad to be done with today. The words of Frost are on my lips, although I don't say it out loud. I have to get up early, and it's way late. Like Frost, I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep. Miles to go.

"...Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow..."
- Robert Frost

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In memory of Bubbles (2008-12-27)
and her mate Scritch