Yesterday morning we closed up our New Hampshire cabin and started the drive back to San Diego.
While my mom and I were busy with all of this, Vida didn't hover, or sunbathe. She spent nearly two hours disappearing into the woods. She'd reappear occasionally (sometimes when asked, sometimes on her own), checking in before diving back into the forest. Her brindle coloring really does make her disappear; I'd never see her at all if it weren't for her white collar and tail tip. She slides in to her woodland role even better because her tags are held in a neoprene packet that silences them.
She'd come back with her eyes bright and shiny, her mouth open and tongue red, panting slightly. But she wasn't panting from exertion as much as from excitement. While I'm sure that her adventuring was a good way for her to deal with the stress of our preparations, it felt like she was excitedly drinking in as much scent as possible so it would last her until we returned next year. It was as if she were trying to commit the geography of smells to memory so she could remember them later and access them in her dreams.