The Old Blog in the Desert

It’s a slight hole-in-the-wall diner, standing alone in a partially graveled and partially asphalted driveway and parking lot. My wife and I have eaten there on occasion while visiting Sacramento.

Good food as I recall. And I’m certain my memory is correct as the delicious odor of cooking wafts through the air.

It was behind this building that I found a small depression in the earth on which to pitch my sleeping bag and build a very small campfire for cooking. It felt glorious to sit down as my feet are swollen and legs are cramping.

A stray has befriended me, a little black, wiry-haired mutt with a goofy set lower jaw. I figure she’s been hit by a vehicle or something — but she ain’t talking.

“Hello,” I said as the tiny thing wagged her tail and danced around my feet.

Once, I tried to pick her up, but she made it known she’d prefer to remain independent. I understood her completely.

So, we shared a meal of rice and water and afterwords she curled up and fell asleep on my ruck sack and I, in my sleeping bag. It’s nice to have some company.