I knew her stride.
Walking along the arroyo path most every morning.
Headphones wrapped around her forehead.
Usually a hat covering her face.
Always leash in hand.
Her face blank. The mind somewhere else.
Deep in long-ago calculations? Secrets of Sandia of Hanford of National Security? Dreaming of trips in the past, planning for journeys in the future?
I don't know what she listened to on those headphones.
But she always popped them off when we met on the trail.
She knew the names and stories of every dog along the path.
Greeting them by name as Skip skipped toward his doggie pals, rearing up on his rear legs to greet them paws extended in play.
The small dogs puffed cheeks to greet him. Then played. The sweet dogs sniffed and played. The mean dogs snarled, then sniffed, then played.
Skip smiled. He always smiled the disarming smile as a little white dog could smile. His eyes obscured with hair; his whole body wagging with greeting.
I didn't know her by name: Wendy Kay Lacey.
I knew her as Skip's mom. Hugh's mom. Shannon and Rachel's grandmother.
Some days she wasn't on the walking path. Once she told me, she liked to start later in the dark days of January to walk into the warmth of the sun. On those days, often I would see her walking the path as I headed to work and lazy weekend mornings. And sometimes she and Skip would be missing for days and days. But after a day or a week or a month, Sami and Ora and me saw her and Skip again. And they returned with tail and tales of travel and adventure with friends and family.
I heard the call out on the police radio: A pedestrian and a dog. Anaheim and Wyoming Northeast. My neighborhood. Skip's walking path. The Journal photographer loaded up his cameras and scrambled out of the newsroom. The sun was up.
I hoped. I feared they would not be back on our winding buckaroo trail.
Sometimes walking beside us, stopping to watch the clouds, talking of her children and grandchildren, of weddings and volleyball games, of PHD's obtained and new jobs. But mostly of travel.
She shared the excitement of Seattle, when my oldest headed Northwest for work, saying it would be all OK there for him in his new adventure.
Of a long driving trip all the way from Albuquerque to the Pacific Northwest through California. Telling of when Skip was attacked at the park, and she as his mother protecting him. Extending the trip for the traveling pair to recover in California. Returning to Albuquerque with a more difficult gait, and with Skip's shaved leg showing off his victory wounds. But walking again. Into the sun.
Often a conversation of only a few words, a few sighs, a sharing of a bag for doggie pickup. A plan of a future trip. A few words about the beauty of the Pacific Northwest, but its lack of sun.
Sometimes we met on the trail, traveling different ways; stopping for a few minutes as our paths crossed. Sometimes we walked together heading the same way: In the summer, stopping in the shade to let the dogs sniff; In the winter, stopping in patches of sunlight.
Always feeling the warmth of New Mexico on our faces as the dogs danced their dance of leashes and leaves and squatting and sniffing.
Always traveling with Skip. Skipper arriving first.
Heading toward the sun.