to bear it down, to be in flight, to bear it down, to be in flight

The oppressive heat of day, now broken in the night. Crickets chirped and sang from beyond the treeline. Wind rustled through the trees.

At the marker, between claimed and unclaimed.

The soft, crinkling sound of foliage.

He turned.

“Old man.” He grunted. His head partially turned. He wanted to tilt his head back. Bare his throat, open display.

He didn't.

---

He stared.

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He looked at him. His head turned. The ghost of his breath. His shoulder blade.

He widened his stance.

Minute detail.

His tongue drawn across his lips.

“No.”

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“Whatever.” He huffed.

His hackles rankled.

Brief, meaningless movement.

And he settled back against the grass. His back leg raised. His right ear scratched.

He kept him there, in the corner of his vision.

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‘I'm going to find something to treat your injuries.’

He snorted.

Huffed.

His ears drawn back, back against his head. His right ear scratched. His back leg down.

Partially stood. He watched him leave.

He licked his mouth.

The healing split of his lower lip. The bottom right corner where canine met incisors. The smooth, metallic taste of his gum, once cut and now healed. The glass lodged, dislodged.

Healing scabs around the front of his neck. Just beneath his jaw. Teeth once worn and pressed close.

He shook the tension from his coat.

Stepped forward, once.

And he rubbed his face in it, in the grass where he once stood. First, with his cheek, then his jaw, then his neck, then his side, and then down onto his back. He rolled, wriggled, and squirmed until he was covered with it, covered with his scent.

He righted himself upright.

Laid, on his belly.

Grass, caught in his haunches. In the fur of his neck. His shoulders. His back.

---

He waited for him to come back.

His head rested, doleful, on his paws.

He laid in the spot where he left him.

His eyes the only thing that moved.

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‘I'd enjoy your company if you're up for a small journey.’

He huffed.

Rose.

Limb and spine popping, cracking, as he did. His back legs stretched.

He shoulder checked him, when he passed. His head clipped his chest. His head smashed against his shoulder. He dragged his side against his. A full body drag.

He went the direction he saw him come.

His head carried low. His shoulders rolling.

He waited for him to catch up.

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His shoulder blades.

His biting teeth.

He walked into him. Against his side. His ears pressed back. His head turned away. Bodily contact. He headbutted his neck, his shoulder, his chest, the stretch and swell of his rib cage. Insistent, and rough. His neck outstretched.

He nipped at his chest, where his body met his leg.

And he wanted to roll into him. Drag him down onto the ground until he smelled like him, and he smelled like him, one and the same.



He didn’t.



He lagged behind when he spoke. The spell broken. Air inside his lungs.

He stretched. Shook. Boneless and complacent, compliant. He paused, scratched, at the drying, flaking scabs along his jaw. New skin underneath.

‘As unpleasant as it sounds, it should help your cuts a great deal.’

He came up behind him.

Butted his head into his thigh. Into the crease of his hip. The black fur of his lower sides.

And followed him down.

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The old man looked and watched for it.



He pretended to.



Several steps behind, he wandered and waded. The water cold and still, in up to their ankles and wrists. Their feet splashed with it, with the river water. The short fur of their lower legs wet.

The riverbed below soft and slopping.

Little twigs and marsh.

Quiet night.

Quiet sound.

He watched the movement of his hind legs. The movement of his white hocks. The movement of his white tail. And he watched the rise and fall and roll of his shoulders. Repetitive movement. Thick white fur. The jut and angles of his elbows, black cutting through white.

His head carried low, behind him.



He watched the riverbank.



Looked, when he heard the movement of water.

Yellow flowers and soft, sopping green stems in the old man’s mouth.

He followed him out.

And his paws were wet and dark with it, with the mud and the water. The grass sticking and clinging to his feet and his muted footfalls.

---

‘Come, sit in front of me and I'll administer the poultice.’

He listened.

His ears pulled back.

Soft.

The fur of his muzzle was pink and wet and damp. Water droplets pooled and collected on the short rough edges of his chin.

He stared.

And tilted his head back, to the side.

Slow.

His throat on display.

Puncture marks and teeth marks along his jaw. The skin once worried and ripped apart. The edges sewn and stitched and knotted together; nature's rough shoddy work, dark and scabbing.

He licked his lips.

Submissive.

And waited for his touch.

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