Directions.

Our journey to the bench always starts at my house as I zip up my winter coat and pull its hood over my head.

Apacha knows instantly we are going out. His tail shifts back and forth like windshield wipers. His two front paws stretch in front of him. He dips into downward dog, and then springs up with a deep gruff. His mouth whistles into a howl as he talks to me.

"Wanna go for a hike?"

His head rubs against my thigh. More talking. I open the door and tell him to go to the car.

He stops to pee first, his left leg pulled up perpendicular to the naked shrubs in my neighbors' yard. I notice how yellow his pee looks in the snow. I wonder to myself if he is drinking enough water. (Later my roommate will wonder the same thing with her dog. We decide it's just the contrast of the luminous snow to the yellow piss.)

We get in the car and drive to the park. We are always driving to be in nature. To get away from the city, the salted sludge of the Pittsburgh hills, where after days on the ground the snow turns ugly and dirty.

We are constantly searching for something clean for our lungs, for our eyes, for our mind. We are constantly trying to get away. Our house too stiff with the recycled warm air it pumps throughout the day. The house too tempting with its cookies on the counter, the books on the shelf to slip into. So we get away, Apacha and I.

We go to the park.

When we arrive, the evidence of the winter amusement is in the tracks. Evidence of kids shooting down slopes on plastic sleds. Evidence of boots imprinting the snow. Evidence of paws trotting along. I open the backdoor to my car, and Apacha attempts to get out. As he does, his back left leg gives out, and he whimpers. This has been happening a lot lately. Shepards and Huskies are known for hip dysplasia.  The cold gets to his joints. I don't know how old he is. My guess is eight or nine, my vet thinks nine or ten. I don't like to think about it. I bend to help him. He is stubborn like me, he doesn't want my assistance. He has his old man pride. He hops out and I hook him to his leash and we step toward the bench.

I notice how compact the snow is this week. My boot barely makes an impression. It's like walking on pavement, except the sound, the crunch of a million little particles under foot as I step. A woman is approaching in the opposite direction talking loudly into a head piece. Her dog is at her side, a cream lab mix. I watch Apacha's fur stiffen and create a little hump on his backside. His head dips, and aligns with the rest of his body. He looks like a predator creeping its prey. The woman hesitates. I assure her he is friendly despite his appearance.

She pauses to motion she is on the phone. Not that I care. I was not interested in conversation. We were getting away. I let Apacha sniff out her dog as she talks too loudly into her headset. I usher Apacha on. He was disinterested in the dog..

I unhook him once we get off the path. We run down the hill. The further we descend into the earth, the more powdery the snow becomes. I watch it as my boot kicks it up. It looks like powered sugar. I think back to Kentucky summer fairs and funnel cakes. I always asked for extra powdered sugar when standing at the vendor tent licking my lips and removing the lingering sweat. The middle-aged, overweight men would smile as they shook the silver container and made it snow in the summertime. I think of Kentucky summers. I think of short dresses and iced coffee and roasting in the sun until the heat is too much the body runs, almost naked and awkwardly dives into the swimming pool.

I'm thinking of all the powdered sugar my boot is producing with each step when I realize Apacha is not ahead of me, or next to me. I turn around and find he is about a hundred feet back sitting in the snow and looking to his horizon. He is taking it all in and worshiping this view ahead of him, the feeling of the cold snow throughout his winter coat he wears in every season. I call out to him, but he won't budge. He just sits and watches the white layer ascend up the hill into another treeline. He is a wise beast. A gentle beast. He is my beast. But he is not a beast at all.

He is domestically wild. He is wide-eyed and kind-hearted. Deep within his soul is a treasure.

He is always reminding me to stop, to slow down and appreciate the view. And I do that now, as I walk back to him, and dip my knee into the snow so my face is even with his face. There we sit and watch the seconds of the day move deeper into the hour.

We sit and meditate for a moment. Just a moment until he has had enough and runs ahead, wild again, and then shots his nose into the snow. He kicks up the snow with his face and rolls into it. He must be approaching perfection at this point. His body content and filled with snow that quickly freezes into his whiskers and gathers down his nose.

We approach the bench and it's as if he knows we are supposed to stop because again he sits right in front of the blue heart, and looks out to the highway, the slopes of the city, the white patches of quilt stitched together with the needles from the branches. I brush the snow off the corner of the bench, and pull my coat down over my butt and sit on the edge. My hands are too cold to write, so instead I take notes in my brain. I watch Apacha's breath exit his mouth, and escape into the sky. Miles away, the breath of a smokestack is doing the same thing, breathing out its exhaust and weaving into the finally bold blue sky, a sky that has been gray for days.

I hear something behind me, and Apacha does too. We both crook our heads and see a cross country skier heading our way. I grab Apacha's collar as he stands up. Sometimes he worries me with passerbys. He often thinks runners and bikers, and now cross country skiers are something to chase. He thinks they are moving swiftly and he should be able to catch them. He can't differentiate their movements. He doesn't know they are working their body no matter the elements. He doesn't know what is a game and what is not.

The cross country skier nods in my direction. I study his handsome, sturdy face and admire his spirit. He reminds me of a man who is far away in another country. A man I love. As he passes, he looks like an angel disappearing into the woods, with the sun on his back, mimicking a halo. He glides into the forest and dips away from our sight. He was the second person we saw on this venture, and would be the last. Usually this park is drenched with people, dog-walkers, joggers, bikers, exercisers, moms, dads and babysitters pushing strollers, actors practicing an upcoming production. But today, it's just me and Apacha, the lady that talked too loud and the angel skier. And we all moved in different directions.

We are always moving in different directions, it seems.