THE RAIN MAY FALL

 

by

Jordan Fowler

 

I am standing on the shore of a vast lake. She is there in a boat drifting farther and farther away. I cannot swim. It's unclear what is off in the distance and a great panic begins to set in. The tears begin to drain from my weary face and are unexpectedly accompanied by rain which sting my eyes as they mix with my oily hair. I'm screaming and pacing, but there is no sound and the shoreline goes on forever. The boat is nearly out of sight now, the figure no longer recognizable, her face is long, long gone. I can no longer distinguish between my tears and the rain. Now there are people all around, some I know vaguely, some complete strangers. Some are pushing boats out, while some are being pushed. Covered in this same wetness, our tears cannot be seen.

 

With a jolt, I am aware this is all a dream and I awake to realize my mind was only acting it out, but the tears are there. I quickly wipe them away with the bed sheets.

 

After a few minutes, I spring out of bed and head out to my second floor balcony for a smoke, the sun is just now poking over the rooftops to the east. It is a beautiful, crisp California morning and it's just the birds and me. I see a hawk high up in the sky circling slowly, ready to dive at any moment. A crow is hopping from limb to limb, chattering and squabbling with another over little pieces of food.

 

The cigarette is halfway burned and my feet halfway covered with sunlight. I hear a voice and look down across the street, there is a secretary walking briskly with her to-go coffee in one hand and her phone to her head in the other. She's wearing a tight button-down shirt tucked into a business-looking skirt and some black heels. She's too far for me to make out her words and I wonder what she's saying and who she's talking to. Her hair and her shape are familiar, but not the same. She rounds a corner and is out of sight.

 

I put the cigarette out in an old beer bottle, make myself some cold cereal with a banana sliced on top, and pour a glass of orange juice. When I'm done, I wash the bowl and glass. It's Monday morning and I'm feeling inspired, but not motivated. Time for a hot shower, this should get me on my way.

 

Standing at the sink flossing, I see myself in the mirror, but I'm not really looking for anything. It's then that I feel a wetness across the back of my calf. It's Rosco, waking up a little later than I do, as usual. He's sitting on his haunches looking up with those brown eyes, wagging his tail. I head back to the kitchen and fill his food and water bowls. He laps up some water and then takes some food. I'm staring at him contently and he looks back at me curiously, I leave him to eat in privacy.

 

It's already 8:45 in the morning, so I head back to my tiny home-office where I will try and get my opinion column out to a local paper. I've not even begun the writing, only finished the outline, and the stress begins to build. My phone starts to ring, I'm glad to see it's a friend.

 

"Howdy Matt", I say.

"Hey buddy! Less than a week, you ready for the big trip?"

I smile and announce, "Ha, you know it! I'll bring the whiskey if you grab the tequila..."

"Already taken care of, let's leave Saturday first thing."

"Sounds good my friend, looking forward to it. Later!"

"Okay, meet you at your place on Saturday, early. Cheers!"

 

With that, the pressure is really on, the task of elaborating on the latest city scandal, what with whiskey and the outdoors on my mind! Rosco must have heard me on the phone, running in setting down beside my chair. "Just a few more days buddy," I say to him as he stares at me with a smile, his tongue hanging out.

 

It's been two and a half years since we picked little Rosco up from the shelter. His black and white fur so fuzzy and his little ears hanging down beside his eyes. There was not even a discussion, we knew he was the one for us.

 

At first we'd pull him up on the bed and hold him between us, just as you would a child. As he grew, he became more independent and decided the end of the bed was his place to sleep. We were fine with that, so long as he was with us.

 

I still miss her intensely and I know he does too. His ears perk up whenever he catches the fading scent from the shoes and clothes she left behind. As though she were still here, he runs around the apartment looking for her, and becomes frustrated and saddened when he discovers she is gone.

 

Sitting at my desk, I say, "hi Rosco, you're a good boy" and he looks at me with puppyish curiosity, rotating his head back and forth, and begins to wag his tail. I look back at my workload and without having to think twice, I quickly push my chair back and get up, dropping my shoulders in a play-like stance. He knows what this means and his body is now entirely out of control, finding it hard to keep his front and rear going the same direction, flapping back and forth like a fish out of water.

 

With this excitement, I throw on some running shorts, a shirt, and shoes. Then I head to the front door where the leash is hanging and the tennis balls are waiting. Rosco is always two steps ahead, bouncing back and forth as I walk, constantly looking back to make sure I'm coming. I attach his leash and head out the door.

 

The park is only a few blocks away. We arrive at the main field and I see people with all sorts of dogs. It's interesting how people and their dogs can sometimes have a strange resemblance. An old man with a sagging, pouty face is across the field walking a big, slow mastiff. And behind us is a funny little chihuahua prancing along with his effeminate owner.

 

Along the same path just ahead is a pretty young lady walking a little yorkie with a pink bow in its hair. An unsaid ritual exists among dog owners, to stop and converse, and the talk rarely digresses to anything other than dog-related topics. The young lady makes eye contact and stops for a chat.

 

"Hi there, this is Jinx... Oh, and I'm Jenna", she says with a smile.

"Good morning, I'm James and this is Rosco, lovely out isn't it?"

"Yes, couldn't ask for any better. These two seem to get along just fine, don't they!", she giggles as Rosco sniffs Jinx.

"They do indeed. Well, we'd better be on our way, nice meeting you!"

"Ah, okay, nice meeting you too, bye Rosco!"

 

When we are out of sniff-range, I pull the tennis ball from out of my pocket. As I've trained him, Rosco sits directly in front of me, silent and motionless. I hold the ball behind my back and with the other hand unleash him. He doesn't even twitch. I bring my hand from around my back and raise my arm very slowly. Rosco's eyes are fixed firmly upon the ball. I unleash a mighty toss out into the field. Before the ball even leaves my hand, he is off like lightning, chasing the ball down in a full sprint, fetching it and returning to his trained stance, dropping the ball to my feet.

 

These are the mornings we live for. After an hour or so, though, I'm tiring of the repetitiveness and remembering I have work to do. Rosco on the other hand is in heaven.

 

II

 

It's Friday night now and I've somehow managed to deliver my article an hour before the deadline. As I wait for edits to come back, I'm laying out all the essential items for the backpacking trip. The closet door is open, I see my sleeping bag is hanging from an unused clothing hanger bar. Above that is a shelf where my .357 magnum revolver pistol lies in its holster. I stare at the the dark brown leather holster wrapped around the black gun metal and contemplate whether or not I will take it on the trip.

 

The last time I needed the pistol, I didn't have it, and the last time I had it, I didn't need it. Logic would tell me that in any event, it's better to be safe than sorry. Having that thought, I get up and grab the pistol. I first slide my hunting knife in sheath onto my thick leather belt, then slide on the revolver in holster. Being right-handed, it's best to keep the pistol on my right side.

 

Rosco is staring at me while I organize the various items. Each time I lay something down, he gives it a thorough inspection, lifting it with his nose and sniffing intensely, bobbing his head up and down. The room is beginning to smell like a mixture of campfire smoke, lantern fuel, sweat, and cooked meat. The scents are meditative and I begin to feel myself reconnect with the wilderness.

 

Backpacking is something of a controversial subject here in Southern California. Many people seem repulsed by the idea of voluntarily leaving the comforts of the city to cook food over an open flame and sleep on the ground. To me, this position doesn't seem quite as blasphemous as some backpackers may declare. I think it's a matter of tradition and of practicality. If you were never taken into the wilderness as a child and taught to appreciate it, then I suppose it's a reasonable conclusion. Of course, for myself and others who were in tents and on rivers from infancy, it's hard to understand how anyone could be repulsed by the unforgiving beauty of nature.

 

The last thing I pull from my closet is an aluminum-frame pack that will carry everything I need for the three-day trip. Having grown tired of his inspecting, Rosco is now lying down close to me, his head in between his front paws. His eyes begin to close, but just as they do, they shoot back open, then begin to close again. As he finally falls asleep, I see that I've received some minor edits to my article.

 

Finishing the last of the edits and the last of my packing, I head off to bed. Just as I lay down my head, Rosco leaps onto the bed and nestles into his spot at the end. I sit up and pet his head and he rolls onto his side and falls asleep.

 

Besides the sound of Rosco's breathing, there is only the mechanical drone of the city. It is the beating heart, pumping the life-blood of society. Far beyond is a symphony of trees swaying in the wind, unpolluted lights in the sky, and a pure silence. Without a heart, we do not live, but without a soul, we are only animals.

 

I had no dreams and I wake with a driving feeling to get on the move. It's 6:35 AM and I get in the shower, knowing it will be the last hot one for a few days. I get out of the shower, dress myself with sturdy socks, shorts and shirt, my belt with knife and revolver (so as not to forget it), and my worn hiking boots. The last thing I pack is some fruit and sandwiches for the drive, a bottle of whiskey, and Rosco's dog food. My pack is over fifty pounds, and we should have enough supplies for four or five days, although we will only be gone for three.

 

With a faint whistle, Rosco is off the bed and directly in front of me, ready for breakfast. As he eats, I read the paper and have a smoke. My article has been published and I'm happy with the final edits. As I get up to return in from the balcony, I hear a car horn and look down to see Matt has arrived in his old '71 coupe. I turn off the lights and grab my pack, Rosco is ready to go. With the leash in hand, we're out the door.

 

"That's what I'm talking about!" says Matt, seeing that we're packed and ready to roll.

 

I open the passenger side door and pull the seat forward, Rosco is instantly in the back seat, his tongue hanging out with a smile. I then head to the trunk and set my pack down next to Matt's. I ask him, "no pistol this time?" He responds, "nope, I knew you'd have yours, just pepper spray for me." I remove my belt and set it next to my pack and jump into the passenger seat.

 

We begin to drive down the road and there is a good energy in the car. It's the beginning of full decompression and unwinding. We don't talk at first, instead watch as the commuters fly by in their sedans and minivans. An hour and a half passes and the suburbs have all but trickled away, the traffic has eased, and a peace of mind begins to set in.

 

Lowering the music, I ask, "Did you speak with Alex this morning?"

"Yep, he should be at the trailhead about the same time as us."

"Excellent, how's everything going with him? We haven't spoken in a while"

"Good, good, little Tommy isn't so little anymore, he'll be in first grade next year"

"Wow. Time really flies by. I think the last time I saw him, he had just started walking! How about you, what's the latest?"

"Not much, just working and playing, the usual. A little luck with the ladies here and there."

"Good to hear."

 

The fact that we will be free and without obligations for a few days is beginning to set in. Alex must be feeling the same, only amplified, given that he has a his wife, kid, and mortgage.

 

Another two hours roll by, Matt exits the freeway, drives along a paved road for another half an hour, then we head due east on a windy old dirt road. We're both staring at the hills which lead to mountains, fields of snow still painting their peaks. As the road begins to climb in elevation, we come upon a fork in the road. Our path is to the left and the sign says "34 mi." to our trailhead.

 

It's warm out, so we roll down all the windows, including the rear quarter-windows, giving Rosco and ourselves some fresh air. The road is an old logging route and on my side is a steep cliff, I listen for running water but can only hear the rocks being pelted into the steel underbody of the car.

 

As the road flies by, I see a mile-marker and realize we're only a mile from the trailhead. We round a few more bends and see a turn-off, which leads up one last steep incline. This last stretch empties into a culdesac braced by a makeshift fence of old railroad ties. There along the barrier is Alex's SUV. He's on his hood with his legs crossed, back against the windshield, hands behind his head, and a fly-fisherman's hat down over his face.

 

We are laughing as we pull up to his car, Alex has just set the tone for the trip. He barely moves, using only one hand to lift the hat from his eyes. Realizing it is us, a big grin is planted on his face and he jumps down from the hood. The man is happier than I think I've ever seen him. We are the only two vehicles here, the trail is ours.

 

Getting out of the vehicle, we greet one another with brotherly hugs and pats on the back. Handshakes are for the city. While we catch up with the latest news, Rosco is scanning the area, running along the barrier, overwhelmed with new scents. I call to him and he immediately returns, sitting at my feet. I load my revolver with six rounds, place it back in the holster, and put the belt on. When I'm done I tie Rosco's leash to my belt and attach it to his collar.

 

"Matt, do you have the route all planned out," asks Alex with excitement.

"Yeah, we'll take it easy today, twenty miles or so," responds Matt.

"Everyone packed up and ready to go?," I ask.

"Yep," they both say.

 

After one last scan of our checklists, we head out onto the trail. Matt is our Magellan, followed by Alex, then myself and Rosco at the rear. As we descend upon the trail, each step unique and new, a release of all tension takes place. It becomes an overall mood shift in the group. A rhythm is reached and talk is infrequent. Humans are innately social creatures and dogs are the descendants of wolves. Together, along this trail, we are a pack.

 

III

 

Rounding a corner on the trail, a large rock wall juts out to our left with water dripping ever so slightly. The drops have begun to form a small dusty stream alongside the trail heading back the way we came. The jagged cliff steers away from the trail and opens into a narrow meadow a few hundred yards long to our right.

 

Nearing the far-end of the meadow I say, "the sun will be setting soon, this meadow is a perfect spot to setup camp."

"Definitely, we should put our tents along that row of new-growth, in case there is wind from the east," says Matt sternly.

"You boys brought the whiskey... right," says Alex with a smile.

 

Dropping our packs, I let Rosco off the leash and his radar is instantly active, marking his territory and scoping out our surroundings. We coordinate who will gather kindling, collect water, and setup camp. I've taken on the task of collecting water from the rock wall a few hundred yards back down the trail.

 

As the sun begins its dramatic descent, Matt lights a match below the neatly arranged dry timber. The flame begins to roar and the smoke begins to rise. All of us hunker down close to the campfire and pour ourselves some whiskey in speckled blue tin cups.

 

We position ourselves around the fire with feet facing into the circle. I've unstuffed my sleeping back from its bag and am using it as a pillow. I begin to think of her as I gaze up at the stars. The guys are sipping their whiskey and carrying on, but I am somewhere else, and they can see it on my face.

 

"What's the deal with you and Nadia these days?" asks Alex.

"If that's not a loaded question... How do you do it?" I ask him.

"How do I do what?"

"How is it that you can know exactly what you should be doing? You've got a wife, a son, a house. How is it that you seem to have it all figured out?" I ask with pathetic desperation.

He takes a long sip from his cup, thinking deeply and begins, "You get up, you kiss the wife, you kiss the son, and you leave your home. You don't want to leave, but they can't live if you don't, it's a sacrifice, everyday."

"But how is it that you arrive upon knowing this is your path?" interjects Matt, with the same desperation.

"Look fellas, I'm no philosopher and I'm sure as hell not the world's greatest husband or father. I suppose at some point in a man's life, he begins to realize what his purpose is. Don't get me wrong, not all men are fit to be fathers or husbands, I mean come on, some become priests," he says, trying to lighten the mood.

We sip on our drinks and laugh.

 

As the banter begins to fade away, I realize it's just Rosco and I again. Seeing the guys from across the crackling fire gives me a sense of belonging. The alien silence and the random crackling of the fire begin to make my eyelids heavier. I catch myself fading one last time and look to see the others have fallen completely asleep.

 

It's late at night and I'm laying next to her on the beach with a blanket over us. She says, "this is mine," grasping my arm firmly, holding it close to her body. I kiss her forehead and...

 

Suddenly I wake up. Rosco is fully awake, his ears are up, and without warning he is in a trance, erupting into a full sprint, growling and barking. I spring to my knees and rummage through my bag looking for my flashlight. I find it quickly and am instantly running hard back toward the trail, screaming "No! Rosco come, heal boy, heal!" Shining the light far ahead, I see Rosco's white-tipped tail bobbing up and down through the brush. He is at least a hundred yards ahead of me and increasing.

 

His instincts are proving to be more powerful than all my training. Just as I think this, I catch my foot on an exposed root and go tumbling onto the meadow floor. I quickly get up without feeling pain, the adrenaline surging through my veins. I've reached the trail now and I can faintly see Rosco heading toward the rock wall. As I run away from the trail toward the rock wall, I hear the hissing and popping of a cat.

 

Getting closer, I begin to slow my pace and hunch my back over, shining the light in front of me. Fifty yards ahead, there is Rosco, he has cornered a young mountain lion against the rock wall. Approaching cautiously, I notice Rosco begins to dip and dive, nipping and barking closer each time. Then, suddenly the cat strikes with full force, sending both of them into a dusty rolling ball of biting and clawing. The cat rolls onto its back attaching its jaws firmly to Rosco's throat and thrashes its head back and forth. Rosco has become the prey as he begins to yelp and cry.

 

At this point, my gun is drawn and I fire a shot into the air, seeing as there's no clear shot to take on the cat. The deafening sound of the round has scared both of them, but instead of scurrying away, the fight only intensifies. Rosco's cries are now being choked and I begin to panic. I try to get closer, shining the light on the crazed cat, his evil eyes glowing with deadly ferocity. As I raise my pistol, the cat begins to back away, his shoulders rippling with muscle and his jaws firmly clasping Rosco's throat. With the cat backing away I see a clear shot at his tail-end, so I take it. The bullet strikes the cat in the spine just above its pelvis, ripping the hair and flesh and bone away.

 

The cat has now released and is attempting to run along the rock wall, away from me. He's not getting far with just his front legs, so I approach a bit more and fire another shot through the back of his head. With the cat taken care of, I run back to Rosco.

 

Dropping to all fours, I shine the light upon Rosco, his eyes are barely open. I lay upon him, weeping, when his rear legs begin twitching uncontrollably. Placing my hand upon his throat, I tell myself, "he can't die, he's all I got, please God, he'll be fine, won't he be fine?" The blood is now hot on my hand, flowing onto it with his last remaining breathes.

 

As the heat of life exits my best friend's body, I pick him up, holding him on his back close to mine. His fur is soft against my arms and I bury my face one last time in it, knowing this will be our last embrace.

 

Returning to camp, the guys are huddled around the glowing embers with pepper spray in their hands. When they see that I'm covered in blood, carrying a lifeless Rosco, their heads hang. The cat had also stolen their spirits.

 

When the guys know I won't be sleeping, they head into their tents. I wrap a shirt around Rosco's neck and place his body in a spare gunny sack. I sit and stare into the embers, re-enacting everything in my head a thousand times. Any of us would have defended our pack in the same way. "Why didn't I tie him up?" I ponder. The regret is overwhelming, I didn't protect him from himself.

 

The hours roll by and I am frozen like the rigor mortis that has undoubtedly set in. The sun is now rising. Before the others wake, I take a walk alone. At first I am afraid to walk back to the scoundrel, but eventually I find the strength. The path of blood is now sprinkled with the morning dew.

 

Approaching slowly, I see the lifeless, bloodied cat lying there, with a rage still emanating from its wretched frame. The face and mouth are wrinkled, exposing sets of big sharp teeth. I begin to drag the carcass away from the clearing into the woods and just as I do, I hear a slight squeak. Nestled under the rear legs of what I now realize to be mother mountain lion, is a tiny spotted kitten, helpless and alone. It is suckling at the last remaining milk its mother has.

 

I pick up the helpless kitten and put it between my shirt and jacket. At the same time I begin dragging its mother into the wooded area beyond the rock wall.

 

With the camp broken down, the fire put out, and our trip cut short, we begin hiking back the way we came.

 

Defending ourselves and ones we love is an innate instinct all animals have. Some win and some lose, but it's never that simple. I've lost my best friend and nestled in my jacket is a baby without a mother. Any other animal would leave the young for dead. The soul is what separates us.

 

 

IV

 

I am now back in the city. Next to me is the kitten and in my hand a warm bottle of milk. As he suckles the bottle, I ponder what it is I should do with him. There's no way I can just raise a mountain lion in a one-bedroom apartment in the city, it's just ludicrous. It must have been illegal to take it out of the wilderness in the first place.

 

With the kitten now asleep I set down the bottle and pick up the phone. As it rings, my heart begins to beat faster and a sort of blankness runs over my mind. After three rings, I hear a familiar voice.

 

"Hello," says Nadia, with surprise.

"Hi! How are you?"

"I'm good, aren't you supposed to be on your backpacking trip?"

"Yes, but it was cut short, I have some bad news."

"Oh no, what is it? Is someone hurt?"

"No, the guys and I are find. It's Rosco. As I began to drift off, he ran after a large cat, who was presumably defending its own territory," I say sadly.

She begins to weep.

 

Reciting the entire story to her, the feeling of loss and failure return.

 

"He will be cremated on Monday, I was thinking we would head to the beach and say our farewells," I say solemnly.

"Sure, I'll meet you at our old spot at sunset?" she says.

"Yes, see you there," I say promptly.

 

Questions of my past actions begin to surface. Her love and care seem distant, but not entirely gone. Hearing her voice always covers me in a blanket of peace. "Why did I push her away? Will she ever trust me again?" I ask myself a thousand times.

 

When we first met, it was at a party at a friends house way outside of the city. Being there brought me back to where I was raised, none of the noise and distractions. The music was playing, people were in groups, some outside on the deck smoking, some inside conversing. I still recall the first time I lay eyes on her. There she on a leather couch, petting a big brown labrador retriever.

 

You can always tell dog people from the look in their eyes as they run their hands over the fur. It is a sort of mutual trust between the person and the animal. She was beautiful. I sat down on the stone hearth and instantly we connected. Before long, we were talking about the most personal topics, forgetting we had just met.

 

We were instantly soul mates.

 

I wandered some more that night and talked with others, but with every gap in conversation, every moment of silence, there was her face implanted in my mind. Images of her frolicking with her family dog. Wondering what her family looked like. The excitement of the unknown.

 

It's Monday now and I'm standing on the beach with an urn in my hands. As I look out to sea, I feel the presence of another and look to my right. She's standing next to me. Her eyes connect with mine and we say our goodbyes to Rosco, scattering his ashes as the waves go out.

 

I turn to her and with an embrace that says everything without a word, we leave our separate ways.

 

Returning home, I find the little kitten is sound asleep in the cage I used when Rosco was little. I sit down on the couch and begin to cry. The feelings of loneliness and of loss set in.

 

Suddenly there is a knock on the door. Running to the door, I open it and there she is, the tears falling steadily down her cheeks. I do not wipe away my tears, I only hold her in my arms.

 

Letting go of her only slightly, she steps inside and closes the door.