the bloodhound

A bloodhound lives inside this earth-suit, and she’s caught the waft of an old, familiar scent.

The perfume of this one taste has lodged in her extravagant nose, and she is uninterested in the distractions that abound. Her brow wrinkles, and her extra-long ears flop side-to-side as she trots for home.

On occasion, the scent fades. She slows, then circles—ever-widening—so she’s reminded of the territory already covered. She ignores a pup who rushes a fence, wanting to play. She trots by the juicy, musky smell of close-by rabbit. There! There it is again, the compelling familiar something-that-isn’t anything—and she beelines forward.

The bloodhound doesn’t question why she’s on the scent; she doesn’t worry about what might happen if the source is not found. She doesn’t even notice that she has left a few companions straggling behind. Any of that would drag her away from her present-moment task.


Story, such as the one above, can be beguiling; the play of words and the images it creates are magical, but it is still made-up story, not the real thing, not the truth. Story is like summer camp—we pack up a few familiar belongings and prepare for adventure, but it turns out to be only movement away from home. It is movement away from the one taste that is only here, now—not in the past, not in an imagined, exciting future—but in this very now, when the body is sore from sitting, and cramps plague the feet. Even these sensations—if resisted—can take us away.

No bloodhound, no earth-suit, not even a scent that calls us home.
Only here, deliciously now.

© Amrita Skye Blaine, 2012
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3 thoughts on “the bloodhound

  1. Um. Story is how I can share your experience, and you mine. Story is how I can imagine myself in a situation, giving me tools for responses when I find it. Story can fit my own emotions, validating them.

    I see what you mean.
    Thank you.


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