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The city is quiet, the neighbourhood is sleeping. Gone are the city sounds of traffic and blaring TVs. I can hear the crickets chirp and the wind in the trees. I can hear the river as it passes over scoured stone.

The street is lit by street lights, garden lights and the waning moonlight. I can see the stars tonight.

Our street is cooled by the night breeze and a rain storm that passed by hours before.

Surrounded by people, we are alone.

Crash takes off for her favourite corner, where the big rose bush blooms and the weedy mustard whispers of wilder places. I gently stroke the pink roses and a few petals are given up to me. I murmur my thanks. Crash gives her water to the shrubbery and weeds.

We turn and head for the river. As we get closer, the old dog’s ears prick. She wiggles with excitement. She loves the river. She races ahead, through the green park, under maple trees and to the promenade. The poor old thing is too short to see over the concrete banister that blocks her view of the river. Put up by man to keep us fools from falling in. She hops impatiently, trying to get a glimpse of the water below.  As I approach she looks at me with frustration. She wants to visit her friend. I speak soothing words and turn, following the course of the river until the promenade gives way to earth and grass.

At last we come to a break on the bank, a small trail that leads down to waters. Crash stands at the top and waits for permission before scrambling down the little hill. It is just light enough to see, but I am slow and careful of my footing. At the bottom, at the edge of the river, Crash dances impatiently. She consoles herself by finding good smells in the grass and sedges that grow along the bank.

I pause and drink in the site of river reflecting city light and moonlight. The park on the other side of the river is dark and green. I breathe deep of the cool breeze and the smell of water. Crash stands at the edge and looks at me. I smile and greet the river as a friend. Then step in.

The water is cool but not cold. It is a shallow river; you can wade from one side to the other. Crash follows me in. She wades in to belly deep and then stops for a long drink. I wade in a little but stay close to the shore, it is night after all. The slow moving current takes some of the weight off from an old dog’s arthritic hips. Crash circles around me, a doggy grin on her face. I am orbited by a wet and furry old friend.

A dim light on the horizon. Pale and pink. The sky begins to lighten. The birds awaken and sing the dawn chorus. They sing the praises of Sun as it begins to return to us, bringing the day with it.

We stand in the river and watch the Sun rise. Our feet upon the stone of the Canadian shield, our legs in the waters of the river, our faces turned up to the sky and Sun. Our skin and fur are caressed by wind and fading moonlight.

With great care and reverence I raise my arms and begin my prayers. One more voice adding to the dawn chorus.  Crash slips and splashes in the water beside me, offering a different kind of prayer, one full of joy and living totally in the moment. My hand reaches into my pocket and produces the pink rose petals. One by one they are kissed and tossed into the water. Crash snatches at one and attempts to eat it. We watch the petals float away and disappear.

I am no fool. This river may seem gentle in the lazy summer but come wintertime it is as deadly as any other. It claimed the life of a small boy who fell through the ice last year. A shrine of bouquets and sadness rests against a tree not far from me.

Carefully and with great respect I bow to the river. I say my farewells.

We climb back up the hill and walk through the park. On our street we are passed by a drunken frat boy stumbling home. The cat is waiting for us when we arrive, he complains through the window as we approach. I shush the silly creature and dry off a happy, wet dog.

We climb into bed as the good people of city wake and rise to face another day.

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Now in some parts of the world you can’t even touch roadkill … in others you can safely gather found dead animals and do as you please, so long as you don’t sell the parts. In other parts of the world you can sell the parts or use them for religious purpose etc. I once found a dead owl on the side of the road at a truck stop, and a RCMP officer helped me remove some feathers and carry it into the woods and say a prayer over the body.

So please, don’t write to me screaming about how I broke laws with my dead neighbour the crow. I know what I’m doing folks.

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