The Hiking Writer

You've probably seen him.

The mangy stray squirting between the hole in the hedge. The shadow darting across the road seconds ahead of the SUV bumper, brake lights flashing as the  driver white knuckles the steering wheel. Reading quietly in the park or on your back porch, seeing that blur in the corner of your eye, not really registering the animal, just the movement.

He's always there. On the edge of perception. My dark dog.

He watches me silently.

His rough fur knows no brush or comb. He sniffs at the edge of everything I do and tracks my every movement

I call him Guilt. My cautious canine.

He is everywhere in everything I do.  

Though I know I shouldn't feed him, his bowl is always full.

Hiking on Saturday? Why aren't you mulching Mom's flower beds?

Not walking like you should? High blood pressure and diabetes is a bitch.

As I lay my head upon my pillow each night, I hear his barking clamour. Work harder, help those less fortunate, BARK BARK BARK .

To quote a wonderful song: All I ask, is to live each moment, free from the last.

'Tis a consummation, devoutly to be wished. 

Guilt is my dark dog.

I try very hard to deprive him of food, but he still survives, and fleetingly haunts my waking life. Maybe the next SUV won't see him in time.

I keep my fingers crossed.