Harvest Hounds

Tree of Gold

Apple Hill Autumn

Fall has always been my favorite season. A crisp, colorful remnant of childhood, I suppose. Memories of raking brilliantly colored leaves into a pile (yes, we did that before the advent of the despised leaf blower) then running and jumping into the middle with my first best and faithful friend, Dusty, chasing right after. Cooler days and pretty new sweaters. First days of school and fresh new boxes of unbroken crayons. I remember the much loved smell of those waxy wands of color--periwinkle blue was my favorite. Halloween and pumpkins grinning in witch's moon nights filled with the aroma of mother's supper of something battered and fried beckoning through the window. My joys in the season as an adult are different than a child's, though not much. The youthful spirit of autumn has not died in me, as do the green leaves that fall to earth. It survives in the joyful antics of my dogs.

It's easy to tell when autumn is upon us, and it's not just from the gilding of leaves in the trees and the changing light of shortening days. My dogs herald the season's change as surely as any other element of nature does. I see it in their enlivened behavior, their heightened senses, the joy of a thousand smells. There must be more scents for them to savor at this time of year than in other seasons. Could it be some genetic memory they carry within them of hunting seasons of yore, baying in tune to the hunter's horn among greener fields in the land of their breed's origin? Do they long to track rabbits tenaciously on the trail until they, the rabbit, or the trail finally gives out? Whatever it is, these two canines of mine embody renewed life! They cavort on neighbor's lawns and spar with each other in the most delightful way that makes me laugh out loud. They have their own Dogtoberfest every day in the crisp autumn air, and if I had any grapes to harvest, they'd probably stomp them for me beneath their massive paws into hearty hound wine of the most rare and precious vintage.