I suppose because all of us have insisted that our pet need or special circumstance gets accommodated in the tax code. The Wonderdog took it all in stride, snoozing soundly on a sunny patch of floor as I mumbled away at the computer. Before she had a chance to stretch the lameness out of her legs, she was tossed into the van and we headed for trailhead. As I snap on my skis, Abby scoots over the snow bank and up Gerry and Ann's drive hoping for a handout. Burdened with tubes, needles and catheters, and laced with morphine, he lies struggling for life in a hospital bed in that far away place.
Taxes suddenly seem even less important.
I suck in the fresh Keweenaw air, wishing I could somehow capture its pine scent and its exhilarating effect and send it to Gerry. I recollect a similar experience - and how I yearned for an open window, a shower, a bowl of cool ice cream, the joy of sleeping on one'e belly, and a gun to shoot the 5 a.m. The trail is mush. Temperatures in the forties, and the warming sun have quickly transformed the crusty track of a few days ago into a soft snow cone substance. My skis sink through the surface.