It wasn’t even about the dog anymore or losing him in Lewisburg, as much as having come so far with him through weeks of hassle- to have him vanish in the night with just twenty miles to go.

What was it about accumulated hassles that filled her with such a sense of entitlement about outcomes? Irony was blind, nobody knew what she had endured for the dog. Bitterness was irrational. She had left the window open in the car.

Still, she stood there, indisputable victim, squinting in the night.

            You never know when you are busy enduring anything if it will be for naught, it is a chance you take, a calculated risk. Chances are good that stupid things won’t happen, but you can’t be entirely surprised when they do. Stupid things happen, and efforts in any direction can be rendered moot. It only takes an open window and a dog with the desire to go.

She thought about the dog, or Walter.

You never know when years of marriage will yield an empty bed in the end, or when paint will be wasted on walls you will abandon, covered by somebody new, your whims erased.

That is just the way of paint, truly the way of many things, maybe even the way of the whole living… gig. We live, but we live  to be erased, placed beneath newer layers of life.

“You never know what will happen to your beautiful blue,” she told the dog, in the night.  

And it was true. Back home, a blue was buried beneath earth tones three layers deep, her blue was gone, and like so many things in her life it joined the list of wasted efforts, accumulated hassles, buried, buried blues beneath newer layers of life.

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