Ben and I are becoming nocturnal – night creatures roaming the dark. In the winter dark, I’m discovering a world I never knew about or paid much attention to.
A few weeks ago, heading out the door around midnight, Ben and I walked past the tree where the suet feeder hangs. I had a flashlight in my hand and the outside light was on, but still I wasn’t paying attention until something flew right across the walkway in front of me. A bird, I thought, at this time of night? I was too spooked to investigate and just scurried after Ben trying to keep myself from running back into the house.
The dark makes me feel almost invisible, like I’m magical. That I could hide there, safe and unseen. But it also can make me feel like a kid still afraid of the dark. I hear an odd sound behind me and debate whether to turn around and look, or just run back to the house. Is there something bigger than a mouse or a rabbit hiding out there beyond my flashlight’s beam?
A few nights later, walking by the same tree, I saw out of the corner of my eye something scurry around the side of the tree. A chipmunk? Coming back to the house, Ben sniffed all around the base of the tree but neither of use saw anything.
Then last week, as I started to walk by the suet feeder dangling in the tree, I finally saw him. He froze and I tried to watch him as I slipped by, not wanting to spook him by lingering to stare. His ears erect, his brown back and white belly were visible as he clung to the side of the tree. It was his large beady black eyes that gave him away. A flying squirrel, a creature of the night. He watched us go by, frozen in place and somehow it felt like Ben and I had been accepted into the ranks. We were all night prowlers.
Last night, around 2 am, Ben and I headed out again. Ben was in a hurry, so I neglected to get on a pair of mittens before going out into the cold snowy night. The squirrel wasn’t around, but coming around the corner of the house, Ben caught a scent and picked up speed. As much as an almost 14-year-old Golden can pick up speed.
I raced after Ben hoping he wasn’t heading after something scary. Scanning the yard with my flashlight, I caught sight of two rabbits playing in the corner of the yard. They looked at Ben barreling toward them and hesitated.
I knew Ben couldn’t catch them, but also that he might not give up. I grabbed for him, just as he stumbled and fell. Tripping over him, I managed to twist my body and throw myself down beside him rather than landing on top of him. He sprawled on his belly. I lay on my back beside him staring up into a black winter sky scattered with stars.
For a second, we just lay there, while I tried to assess whether I’d broken anything. Then rolling to my side, I felt Ben over making sure he hadn’t broken anything. “We are getting too old for this, Ben,” I said my voice eerily breaking the silent night.
Ben rubbed his face happily in the snow, unphased by the position we found ourselves in. I lay back on my back, the cold from the snowy ground seeping into me. People complain about the winter and the cold, but somehow it’s easier to feel alive with laying on cold snowy ground staring up into a dark winter sky. We miss so much by staying inside on dark winter nights — rabbits playing in the yard, flying squirrels eating at the suet feeder, the hoot of an owl, foxes and deer crossing the fields.
Ben, of course, didn’t want to get up. I left him to go get mittens and a scarf, thinking we might stay out a enjoy the night a little longer, but by the time I returned he’d gotten up and was heading back into the house.
Every old dog I’ve had has invited me to be a night owl on cold winter nights. Before Ben, I didn’t always appreciate the invitation. But now with age, Ben and I both find ourselves awake at night, and so I am beginning to appreciate being outside on cold winter nights. I just need to remember to dress for the adventure next time, so we can be proper night prowlers.
Priscilla Berggren-Thomas lives in Homer.
