Endless Possibilities

Previously, we had 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and then Poetigress's Thursday Prompt for April 7th was the word "stolen." So--

     Rolling down to the mailbox between rainstorms to send in my 

latest Publisher's Clearinghouse entry, I stopped for a breather 

like I usually do at the Ramsay's house on the corner at the 

bottom of what I call the hill even though I doubt anyone walking 

would even notice the incline.  And that meant Traveler came out 

to talk to me.  "Good afternoon, Mr. August," he said as formally 

as only a Doberman can.  "As the master and mistress aren't home, 

I hope you'll forgive me if I dispense with my usual barking and 

slathering."

     "Quite all right, Trav."  I peeled the velcro open on my 

gloves and readjusted them.  "I know you're just doing your job."

     "Thank you, sir.  So few of you humans seem to understand."  

He sat down on the other side of the fence and glanced through the 

slats.  "I see Miss Brujo isn't accompanying you today."

     I shook my head.  "She's burrowed into my blankets.  She seems 

to take it personally whenever spring turns out to be something 

other than warm and sunny."

     "Oh, but it's such a glorious day!"  He touched a front paw to 

his chest, his cropped and pointed ears perking up.  "Clouds like 

mountains but fluid in their gracefulness, wisps of white and blue 

and gray mixing in mist and sunlight."  Pulling in a huge breath, 

he blew it back out.  "On a day like today, sir, one could almost 

hope for the impossible, could almost dream the unimaginable!"

     Knowing what Traveler hoped and dreamed, I wanted to blow out 

a breath, too.  But instead, I said, "One almost could."

     "Do you think, sir?"  He sat forward, and as much as I don't 

think a Doberman is physically capable of making 'puppy dog eyes,' 

Trav came pretty darn close.  "Do you think you could convey a poem 

to her, so?  On this day of all days when the possible beckons past 

all obstacles great and small?  Could you, sir?"

     And knowing as well what El Brujo has said about the other 

poems of his I'd brought her, I still didn't shake my head.  "I'll 

be coming back by here in ten minutes or so," I told him.  "If 

you've got something ready, I'll take it."

     Springing to his paws, he wagged his stub of a tail as much as 

he could.  "I've been working with the phrase 'stolen my heart,' 

writing variations on the concept and exploiting our respective 

stereotypes: me the guard dog, her the dark and lissome creature 

of the night."  He turned and sprinted back to his doghouse.  "I 

shall be awaiting you, sir, upon your return!"

     I waved, pushed away down the street, and briefly thought 

about taking the longer way home.  But no.  Who am I to steal a 

guy's hope?

After this, then, comes 8.