Yesterday, we followed a coyote puppy as she ran across the field into the bush toward the Trinity River; my Labrador retriever, "Bear," and I make the run at least once a week from my home in Fort Worth, Texas.
This weekend, we celebrated my earthly daddy's seventy-third birthday at a restaurant in Grapevine; his extended family, his wife of over fifty years, their children and grandkids were all there for the rare fun together.
Bear and I have encountered snakes, raccoons, possums, beavers (he was bit by one twice in a tangle), birds of prey, skunks, and even a pack of coyotes, but never a coyote pup by herself.
Dad has asked all us to to canoe with him down the Brazos, but he had to get us all in the same room before we "busy" people could actually schedule it.
The little wild canine had no idea I'd put Bear on his leash, that he was just curious and I just concerned to learn why she seemed so lost and alone.
The man I measure all men by, and all my fathers by, is an orphan who grew up passed around from family to family and who's taken his own family with great purpose to the remotest parts of this earth.
In a few moments, I'm leaving my quiet office and headed home to the ones I love the most. Loneliness is bothersome to me a great deal, and sometimes I feel like I know why.