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Dog-Footed Woman
Thursday Before Dawn and Saturday, Just After Midnight: 8/24-26/2017

Crossing Middle River Bridge in the morning dark, under which the giant Egret no longer stands, I recovered my spirit upon seeing a long-lopping fox making for the riverbank besides me.

The fox was beautiful and I pictured him outsmarting traffic all the way home, using him to banish the memory of seeing my dog run over by a pickup truck at age 14.

After catching and offloading from the bus, again in the emptying city, I saw her, running towards me like an elven ghost, the beautiful young woman who runs a circuit looping over the ridgeline I climb, doing a few five minute miles before heading off to work.

She does this when not skipping rope in her asphalt driveway.

Her companion is a disciplined Staffordshire Terrier, both hustling along at the pace I used to keep in my youth, just under five minutes to the mile.

They make little noise in the dark, darting along like ghosts, his muscles rippling under his short white fur, hers rolling under the soft curves that remain on her body. She is sensible, giving me some birth as I step off the walk, and confident too. She has the body mechanics of a well-trained athlete, her feet not plodding a bit, her shooed step brushing no more loudly on the walk than her dog's pads.

As they disappear behind me I muse about them all the way up the ridge, that they seem survivable, at this hour at least. I admit to myself that I am glad to see them, Artemis and Cerberus running before dawn in the shadows of this dying place, making me with my cane feeling like something of a Nestor.

As I crested the ridge I was pleased—and impressed with her pace—to see her again, running towards me on the asphalt. I walked across her path in downcast deference to the other side of the street, her little feet springing along in near silence. There waited for her to pass before I paused, leaned on the cane and admired her form, wondering what kind of athlete she was.

Her hair was a straight, soft, light brown, bobbing in a ponytail.

Her shoulders were almost boyish, not rounded or balled but a bit too square for beauty if they had not been balanced by that magnificent posterior, still invitingly wide.

Her belly was barely soft, not masculinized, her breasts still mid-sized—and she was gone at a pace few men could sustain for a block.

I would have to guess MMA for this girl, as she body typed closely to Miesha Tate, but facially closer to Gina Carano.

I thought about them, about how they would fare when it happens, when they are selected. I think they will do well and get through.

I was still thinking of them and the fox when I crossed Middle River Bridge on my way to work on Friday night into Saturday morning. I looked right and saw that the Egret had not returned. I looked left and saw him laying in the gutter, cut in half, a smart enough looking fox even in death.

Not caring to dwell on the sight, I looked ahead to the sidewalk as I crossed the bridge and almost stepped on his leg, still bleeding, laying on the curb; one of the legs that had sent him bounding across the grass towards the bank on his way home two mornings past had been caught under the wheel of a car as he tried to get through.

Mythic/Athletic References

Being a Bad Man in a Worse World

Fighting Smart: Boxing, Agonistics & Survival

Add Comment
anunemooseAugust 26, 2017 11:24 PM UTC

Reading the wiki regarding Nestor: Interesting perspective described there about the quality of his advice. I find myself respecting the hand of fate as it were, yet more interested in evaluating advice based on the outcomes that result. Honeyed voices and those who seem to be telling me too much that fits my current world view tend to raise my suspicion quickly. Bummer about the dead fox, lets hope that human fox has the inclination to breed more of her loveliness into the future.
LaManoAugust 26, 2017 7:33 PM UTC

Good description, and a beautiful picture.

If her companion truly is a "disciplined" Staffordshire bull terrier, then he's going to be ripping up dindu meat if "they get selected". More than that, the natural fear of the predatory Negro for a dog will keep them out of the selection process in the first place.

I'd rather have him with me than have a stick, knife, or gun in that situation ...