Back in the day, before housing developments began to fracture our fields, I picked real blackberries from bushes lining our little road. I remember the heat, the thorns that scratched my arms and face, and the heavy smell of ripe berries which somehow draped itself over my whole body.

My peaceful dog, who always traveled with me, pushed her way through the thick briars. I had seen her do this before and knew that she was searching for the perfect blackberry. She loved berries of all kinds, but blackberries were her favorite.

She had a specific method for taking a berry from the bush. Standing directly in front of her chosen berry, she carefully put out her tongue and gently, tenderly, stroked the berry until it fell into her mouth. Then she mooshed it around, licking the purple juice that oozed from the berry onto her lips. She did these things slowly, her eyes half closed.

I always thought of her berry search as a form of canine communion, the wild berry carrying a dark remembering of wholeness and dog community joy. A time when she was not a house pet, but wholly integral to her time and her world. Her search for the perfect small fruit, her focused satisfaction as its juices broke in her mouth, her immersion in the blackberry’s dense wine, worked to bring her back to herself. She was covered in dark purple blessings, perfected in her gentle searching, welcomed back to richness of body and self.

Bless the berries. Bless their dark wine.