Under the impression

These words came to mind this morning when I saw the fresh tracks in my garden. Fox, coyote, or the neighbourhood dog that pees on my peony, I can't tell, but it was running, and on the way by it must have brushed the lilies and now has lily-poo on its coat. Just like me. Damn lilies.

Under the impression. What an odd way to begin. That always precedes the assumption. We wait for it. Humour us, the utterers of these words, for we're all under the same impression sometimes. That paws sink in the mud and mud wells up between the pads and sticks in the hair should go without saying. Unfortunately there's more to it. Ask the johnny-jump-up how it felt to be trampled. How it feels. Its bloom is now ruined, the purple and yellow petals torn. Part of one missing.

So it goes. Somewhere the animal sits, resting, cleaning its feet, pulling mud balls out with its teeth. This I know. I don't even have to close my eyes to see its canines. No sign of the petal though. Not that I was under the impression that I'd see it. Not yet.