Underneath all of this is the need to connect.  The need for each part of the day to flow into the next wihout forcing it or worrying too much about it. Bob Burnquist and his crew session at his ramps, then cool down by playing music together,  Bob on drums. Here at my mom’s house it’s just after dawn. There’s this mechanization here. The hot tub will kick on at 8 am. The thermostat set at 75. I look at Julio, curled on his bed, tail to nose. Dogs are permanently in the flow. At least permanently in their flow. Julio grew up on the calles Rivadavia, Alvear, and Sarmiento in Quilmes, Buenos Aires,  a street dog, nosing trash, killing rats and mice and whatever else. One day someboday was driving and either didn’t see him or saw him and just thought ‘perro callejero de mierda’ and gunned it. A broken back left leg. He probably weighed 22 pounds at the time. Then Lau. Her flow that day was to see him (they’d already made eye contact on other days) there all bloody, take him to the vet, then bring him home. Julio’s older now but still a hunter, annihiliating all the geckos by the pool. He limps on the bad leg but still catches them. When he’s not hunting or sleeping he always seems so sad like he’s just not sure what will happen next. When he sees us packing it gets really bad. “It’s ok bud,” I tell him. “You’re going too.”