October 23rd.

Opening day for our desert elk season.

And the second anniversary of a bad day.

Maybe some day when I have a little more time I will talk about the day's opening volley, when five trucks of hunters surrounded 12 elk on a sagebrush flat. (At least six shots rang out. All 12 elk made it out, running past me to hide in a sage draw near a drilling rig where, near sunset, no one had yet found them.) And maybe mention the fellow who got his first elk that day, the many anatomical questions that came bursting forth from his wife, and their assist in extracting lymph nodes.

And the flat tire. The rock on the gas field road that punched through the tread. The first flat on this truck, I think. (At least, I had no idea where the jack was hidden.)

And the totally tired heeler sisters, who slept through the entire tire changing operation, and all the way home on the Interstate, and the stop in town at the tire dealership.

They were still sleeping as we headed east out of town on the main drag.

Heelers learn routines, you see, and know their regular routes. Turns, stop signs, lane changes... none of these will get even a raised eyebrow if it's a movement filed in memory.

So,

When we get stopped at the brand new stoplight on the east end of town (that the town has been taking months to get installed), delaying our entrance back onto the Interstate, two sleepy heads immediately pop up. And look around.

Turning to focus on me, as we sit in our first new traffic delay, behind another car.

"Who the fuck put that here?" they clearly were asking.

Before settling back down to nap as we continued on home.