How Does He Do That?

I used to work for a university. My domain was the pool, and I reported to various people in the athletics department. Between the pool and the offices was the main gym. Rather than go around I would often walk through the gym. The gym has no windows. Light from the lobby would outline the doors.

Walking towards those dim outlines through the blackness was always a weird experience. I'd tell myself 'smooth basketball court' over and over. The outlines would disappear for a flash, and I'd think someone was coming the other way out of the darkness until I realized I had just blinked my eyes, tired from straining at nothing to see. The mind, cut off from its most relied upon source of input, would create. A basketball left on the floor could trip me. If they were set up for volleyball I could walk right into the net, or a pole. No amount of knowing things wouldn't happen could keep them out of my mind.

I take Jack to a big grass field by the church. He runs. He takes a slow trot out to the fence line, and turns along it. When he gets near the corner, I call him, and he races back. He charges around the field until his tongue lolls out of his mouth, then he does it some more; though the trot makes more frequent appearances after a while. He gives no thought to what he can't see, he just runs.

I love my dog.