Early Saturday morning, before anyone else was up, I walked the dogs to the other side of the lake. I was following music that drew me as irresistibly as notes from Pan's flute. I expected I would find the source at the home of a neighbour who plays the guitar. It wasn't a guitar whose notes I followed, but it made sense that one musician would attract another. However; that was not where I found the source.
Instead the lonesome notes floated down from the mountain. A small red car was parked on the road below. I listened as the solo sax concert continued. Jazzy, bluesy, the music was the purest thing I had ever heard. I stood for a while, scanning the slope, hoping to catch sight of the musician, but I saw nothing.
The music followed me as I walked the dogs along the road and I felt privileged. It was a perfect fall day. The lake and the forest were peaceful and radiant. I was absolutely alone with the dogs and the music coming down the mountain. I felt connected to nature and to the unseen musician.
The rest of my weekend unfolded in its normal pedestrian way, but every time I performed a chore or walked the dogs, the music in my head, those clear notes, reminded me that life was precious.
That haunting music blessed me several times last night.
The raccoons had gotten into the garbage ... again ... and all three dogs (Kenya, Tango and Henry) got into it the one time they were allowed to run free since the porcupine affair. Sunday morning Kenya was up retching at 5:30. She produced bile wrapped in tinfoil. Then Tango began retching in several places as I made lavender pancakes for breakfast. He produced yellow bile which I covered with paper toweling until after breakfast. A few hours later, Kenya's diarrhea started.
Last night I was out with her at 9, at midnight, at 2 and hourly from then until 7 when we got up for the day. Each time I shrugged on an oversized fleece jacket and pants over my pyjamas and picked up the flashlight. Most times I let her lead me up the hill to the road and then I followed her staggering route along the road until she found a spot where she could turn in circles until she was released from the cramps by a watery gush. Sometimes I'd have to wash her before we returned to bed.
I was exhausted and the only thing that kept me from despair in those long dark hours was the music that played in my memory with such clarity I almost believed the sax player was still up on the mountain watching over me in the darkness.