Womad Ways: Sleeping with a Hobo

I was sure he was a goner.

Teak woke me barking @ 3:00 a.m. Different from many warnings, this one had a ferocious edge. Something was out there. Besides Hobo. And it was close.
I heard rattling in the outdoor building materials a few feet east of La Perla. Thieves? I was about to phone Em & Paul, sleep inside the house, when 4 young coyotes zig-zagged by La Perla to the west. The parents were still intent on the building materials to the east. I was between them.

AND WHERE WAS HOBO?

The pack came together and trotted down the railroad bed. I opened the door and called Hobo. No response.

Well, he's no doubt caught, I surmised. Victim of song-dog parents teaching their pups how to hunt.

I rose at dawn and called him again. His familiar run to the trailer steps didn't happen.

I garnered the courage and stepped outside to the storage yard to look for signs, like gobs of golden fur. Hobo dropped from underneath my truck and trotted towards me with a, "King of the World" 'tude. For those of you new to the Hobo tale, Hobo's origination story is centered on the undercarriage of my truck, where I found him at 4 weeks old hitching a ride in British Columbia.

Hobo has taken to sleeping on my altar. He gently pushes a prehistoric gastrolith, precious stones, my quartz crystal and tuner, candles and sacred feathers aside and nestles in between my power symbols. There's no getting around it, just like there's no getting around his choice to go outside after midnight.

Hobo's crystal-charged altar bed is next to my head. His healing force stayed with Teak when she came home from knee surgery three days ago. I am well aware that any sunset might signal the final time I will see my little friend, but I am thank-full for every laughing, worrisome, soul-healing moment my little altar ego spawns.