We had developed a habit of walking trails together. You sprinted ahead, pausing to explore anything with an interesting scent. I didn’t know why certain odors intrigued you more than others, but I did know that the more something stunk—a rotting apple, a brackish puddle, excrement of any kind—the more it captivated you. Because of your heightened sense of smell—you have millions more scent receptors that humans do—you likely knew where I was even if you couldn’t see me, and yet, you kept me in view, somehow never venturing outside my own line of sight. Every so often, you’d turn in my direction and make eye contact, as if seeking some kind of reassurance. As long as I didn’t call your name, or gesture for your return, you’d canter along ahead of me, attuned to whatever sweetness or rank might be awaiting your discovery. Long-legged, but short in stature, not quite as tall as my knees, with your white, tan-spotted fur, your round, copper-brushed ears and white-tipped tail, you could have been mistaken for a miniature, albeit out-of-place deer.
Veering off our usual path, we found an un-mowed field with goal posts at each end, what I surmised must once have been a soccer field. At first, you seemed to hesitate. Perhaps you had grown accustomed to human-made paths, trails through the woods and sidewalks in the city. In contrast, here was an expanse of green, something you probably hadn’t encountered, at least not off leash, since I adopted you from the shelter. You tentatively began to explore your surroundings, sniffing at the air, burying your nose in purple clover, ambling to-and-fro in some overgrown, leafy vegetation, your tiny paw prints momentarily visible in still wet grass.
I had turned to admire something, though I don’t remember what, perhaps one of the gnarled old oak trees, or a patch of wildflowers. But it must not have been of consequence. When I looked around, what I saw took my breath away. A yellow butterfly held you in rapt attention, and you appeared to be engaged in a game of chase. I’d watched you run after squirrels and rabbits, never actually catching up with them. While I knew it was likely instinct for you to hunt small animals, when on occasion you happened upon a dead baby bird or some other maimed living thing, you’d only ever managed to pick it up in your mouth and walk around with it like a prize. Inevitably, you grew tired of it, abandoned it like a rag doll, unscathed.
Unlike a squirrel, moving in the grass along a horizontal path in our backyard, the butterfly moved in grand circles, in arcs. She could close her wings, make herself nearly invisible, and then spring to life in a burst of gold and flutter, and you couldn’t predict when or where. Each time she descended, you’d leap into action, run and pounce, run and pounce, your tiny forepaws landing on yet another patch of butterfly-less clover. She eluded you, masterfully, but you didn’t seem to mind.
As I watched you, something fluttered at the edges of consciousness, something from my own childhood—about the world in its color and motion, its magic. If a memory, it eluded like the butterfly. I couldn’t capture it; I could only sense it.
And yet, you made it tangible. Even now, if I want to conjure it, I simply close my eyes, and remember you: besotted by a yellow butterfly, flitting after it across a meadow, leaping through the air, alighting in purple clover.
Originally published in Thorn & Bloom Magazine, 2025.
Heather A. Holliger 