I took a walk this evening, to clear my head and get some exercise. It's dark out there, very dark. And I've just been reading a book about spirits and ancient rites and old gods spilling into our world with malevolent intent. So understandably I'm a bit on edge. When the dark is all around me, quiet and thick; when I'm walking through it, feeling introspective; it seems then that the darkness is both frightening and seductive. It seems that it's going to reach out and grab me; the prey instinct. It's an exhilarating fear because it's primal, and yet the logical mind tells me that in the suburbs a 6+ foot tall man has very little to fear in the way of predators. So the dark also becomes seductive: there are moments when I just want to jump into the darkness and disappear; cease to be Jesse, if only for a while, and just skulk around as a creature in the shadows.

From the top of the hill, the skyline of Vancouver is beautiful in the clear night. I realize I need a better camera.

At a point, I sense there is a presence behind me. I don't recall having heard anything, though my hearing is poor these days. Nevertheless I know that there is something behind me, not someone. Fearfully, I turn around and scan the darkness. When I see something moving, my eyes widen and my body jumps with a start, just as my mind notices it's just a cat trotting towards me. Seeing my fear, it stops in it's tracks and whirls around... presuming something behind it has startled me. Amusing.

I greet it with the typical half-hearted cooing I reserve for cats. It doesn't rub against my leg or meow, it just stands beside me waiting. I take a few steps. The cat moves in front of me and walks until I stop, then looks back at me, expectantly. "Ah, I'm to be an escort, then." Our neighbourhood plays host to packs of racoons and solitary coyotes; there is much for the domestic feline to fear. We walk for blocks. I refuse to cross streets until cars are well out of the way; thankfully the cat heeds my caution. Every once in a while the little cat stops, reacting to some sound or sense, looking intently into a bush or under a parked car. I keep walking, around the cat if necessary, saying "psst" or jingling my keys in my pocket as I go, as if to say, "there really is nothing I'm worried about, move along."

We continue several blocks in a straight line. I begin to get worried that the cat isn't as bright as I've presumed and that I'm leading him or her further away from home. I stop at corners and look at the cat quizzically, "This way for sure? You'd better know where you're going." But eventually the cat very decisively turns a corner and my faith is restored. Halfway down that street it turns into the walk of a house and stops. I keep walking for a bit and look back at the cat. "Home then?" We stare at eachother for a bit until the cat sits down on the walk with an apparent sense of ownership. So I can be reasonably assured that cat has reached its destination.

"You're welcome," I think to myself as I walk myself home.