A long bus trip home, my stranger seatmate fell asleep and snuggled up to me.
Her dog said "She does make herself comfortable, eh?"
Being neutral, and not wishing to seem uncourteous, I replied "I'm a bit surprised you're speaking? Can all dogs talk?"
The dog, a blonde retriever guide, spoke quite low, and hardly moved his lips. It was almost telepathic, but definitely audio frequency.
"Yes, we can, but we don't trust most of your kind to handle it so easily. But you smell calm and understanding, and your face language is accepting of the idea. And like all dogs, I can hear tones in your voice quite beyond what even the most perceptive of you can. And all this tells me a lot."
Slowly thrilling at this immense revelation, I somehow slowed that process and reveled in the ramifications.
My mind drifted to Hermann Hesse's "Journey to the East," a magically realist tale of a world just beyond our perceptions, where ideals hung in the air like jeweled butterflies, and expeditions gathered themselves under the guidance of an unsung and unnoticed guru, yearning after some state of completion.
Then I climbed that staircase of thought and looked across KosLand at a myriad of old hippies like myself, once again tripping, "one hand waving free," exorcising demons of cynicism, hitching up our bellbottoms, and rallying to the rainbow flags of equality, belonging to society, and the cessation of hostilities.
It wasn't so long ago we gave up on it, found it, lost it, and now here it is again. And if our guide is a small deft self-effacing multi-talented Salvadorean of mysterious powers, well, that would fit the story.
My further conversations with my new retriever friend, at the communal loft of fellow dog-talkers, told me it would be a long and lonely walk, with many more diversions and disappointments. But I'm glad I'm walking again, and would like to thank our guide, Kos, even if he disappears on occasion, like an elf.
It's what elves, and guides, do. Sometimes we have to forge ahead on our own. And we will.