Mutt and Mongrel, both the color of dusk, ran wildly through the brush, also the color of dusk, while she served as a sort of home base, surprised by each explosion of reappearance. Vera called it walking the dogs, but it was more an accompaniment. Her father’s response to Vera’s childhood complaint was, “You should have heard your mother’s first choice.” Her parents had referred to themselves as retired hippies. It had merely been a whim of her mother’s, whose name was Lauren, a young woman’s name, Vera thought, a whim that had not been met with adequate objection by her father, Sean, a young man’s name. People often commented, but she couldn’t tell them it had been her grandmother’s or great-grand’s or even a great-aunt’s name. She knew that one day it would be an old woman’s name. She thought of it as an old woman’s name, a name from a different era. Enough time to put away the horses and walk the dogs. The woman calculated that she had a couple of hours left before the weather found her. Gray drapes of rain moved up from the south, warmer air. The shadows of mountain mahogany and sage stretched west across the valley floor below, shortened, and finally reached eastward and would soon be gone, disappeared into the ghostly flurries of snow that had come from nowhere and promised to leave nothing.
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