Meanwhile, back at the ranch...- part 3

It's tomorrow again in Muland. I'm truly hoping this will be the last of my holiday series, but I can't be sure. See, we're getting to the original intent of my story and I'm having a really, really hard time writing this. I don't want you to think I'm getting all paranormal or religious on your collective butts. Neither do I want to come off as pathetically emotional, though in order to state my case, all the above elements must come into play.

For some time now, I've recognized little events that can only be described as too convenient to be simple coincidence. I think if they'd occured at any other time, I would have never have given them a second thought, but at the lowest point in my life I thought about my Christmas story for the first time in 30 years. While I won't go into details, I will tell you that it was Christmastime and remembering the ranch changed me more than any antidepressant, any counseling or any type of rehab could. Since then, I've been acutely aware of the world and its people around me. And since I've always wanted to explain the inexplicable, I began to formulate a theory of what we call the spirit. Believe me crazy, tell me I've got way too much time on my hands, but don't call the guys in the white coats just yet. Please, read. Think. Research. Question. Above all, keep your mind wide open. Your life might depend on it.

It may not have been Christmas Eve, but it was darn close to it. The dogs woke me one night. Not unusual in itself, but instead of whining and poking their cold, wet noses into my ear, the four of them stood by my bed, as if waiting for me to sense whatever it was that got them up. Kind of puzzled (I was way too old to believe in Santa), I put on cold-weather gear and boots because I never let the damn fools out by themselves in the middle of wildcat country. Mostly, our mutts would rather run than fight, and I for sure wasn't going to offer myself as a tasty distraction in order to save their hairy asses. Pa drilled it into me five ways to Sunday that I was not to go outside after dusk without at least a .38. He'd rather I took the 20-gauge, but hell, it was almost taller than I was, and I couldn't aim it as well anyway. Having been so conditioned, I promptly left unarmed except for a flashlight. Which, it turned out, I didn't need either. Now in the movies there'd have been a gorgeous full moon and snow to reflect its eerie platinum light, but all I had was the barest sliver of said orb and the ambient glow of the Milky Way, which was more than enough to see by. At the time, I gave it hardly a thought as I followed the dogs down to the horse corral. It did occur to me, however, that it was strange that they trotted almost single file along the trail, not weaving from side to side with noses to ground, gobbling up interesting scents along the way. Eight ears at attention, eight paws padding silently, four snouts up, they gave the impression of pups with a purpose. Neither did they stop to pee and poo which pissed me off royally since that was the whole idea behind this excursion. I was tired and cold and just wanted to get back to my bed. I started to call them to me, but the sound of my voice in the deep quiet creeped me out a litte. They didn't seem to hear me anyway. We were nearly at their intended destination when I finally woke all the way up.

The horses stood in the midst of the field, no snorting or stamping, no whinnying, all looking in the same direction. Only their tails made an occasional soft swishing. The dogs moved in between and under their legs with hardly a whisper where they, too, stood motionless, gazing at the fingernail moon. I was beyond creeped and all the way into freaked until I stopped and looked for what might have captured the animals in such a trance. I saw nothing but a midnight-blue sky dotted with thousands of crisp stars that hung suspended, like frozen snowflakes, overhead. In the heavy silence of the moment I almost turned to run back to the house, to comfort. I was half convinced I was far into a weird dream, for as in such a dream, I couldn't move. I was rooted to the spot yet suddenly alive as never before. Wave upon wave of sensations passed through me: the smell of fresh manure, the heat from the animals, the feel of clean cold air, the stale taste of bed-time hot chocolate, the sight of every frost-covered pine needle on the nearby tree. And with it came a sense of anticipation. Of yearning. Of hope. Of kindness. It had nothing to do with the so-called birth of Christ. This was more along the line of a visceral racial memory.

I don't know how long we were out there, my animals and I. I didn't recall that event in the morning. For that matter, I forgot it for thirty more years. But every Christmas, in whatever part of the world I was in, I went out into the night without knowing why. And the older I got, the more I drank in of the majik we could all share if we only knew what to look for.

Golly. Guess we will have one more episode...if you want to know what I honestly think happened then and is still affecting me now.

Sweet dreams,
Mu