My wife Julie and I were tired of waiting for the world to open up, for fear to be gone, or at least not daily in our faces. And so we drove an hour west across the Mississippi River, had lunch at a riverfront restaurant (served by a masked waitress), and then went hiking along Iowa’s Flint River.
Flint River at Starr's Cave Nature Preserve, Burlington, Iowa
Few folks were on the trail. Mainly just us; the clear, flowing water; and limestone cliffs exposed behind leafless trees.
A small group, though, soon approached, following behind an excited border collie mix. “He’s not our dog,” a child yelled, when the loose, collarless dog bounded toward us. We only smiled and continued down the path.
On our return, there was the dog again, following two other people. Suddenly, he picked up a stick, dropped it at my feet, and looked at me with a clear message: Well…come on, throw it! And each time I threw the stick, he brought it back and heaved it at my feet. He was a simple, pure joy.
Then we heard the dog’s owner calling, “Peanut!” And his body language slumped into a new message: The fun is over. We sadly watched them walk away, Peanut now in a harness, his tail held low. As for us, it was also time to return back to our own larger reality, and I finally noticed that no one on the trail wore a mask. Days later, we still talked about Peanut.
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