When we lived in northwest Montana we would take Grace for walks every day, she loved to walk the old logging roads that meandered through thick forests of tamarack and lodgepole pine that blanketed the hills around our small town. "Walk" isn't really the right word. She ran. And she ran. Grace was not one to stay close, she was always off in the distance somewhere giving away her presence only by a rustle of dry grass or a fleeting gray streak through the tree trunks and we used to yell for her to come back. And we would yell some more. She never really lost us, we're convinced, but as far as we could tell she was gone for good. Sometimes we'd hide behind a tree and just wait until she came running back, hopefully frantic to find us. And we'd wait. And wait. Slowly it would dawn on us that we must look like fools with our shoulder against a sappy tree trunk, peering around the bark looking for a dog that really had no interest in finding us. Then we'd step out and start hollering again. She'd eventually come sauntering back with a look that said "Such a fine morning for a nice walk and what is all that yelling about? What's that over there? A squirrel?!"
I found this image in our files today and suddenly she was alive again, running down the path, doing what she loved to do most. But this time she isn't coming back no matter how hard we yell . . .