After handing over a cool amount of cash and picking up these new (old) keys, I firmly shook Quentin's hand, tied on my blue gingham kerchief for the ride home and walked out to meet my new babe. Dad followed me to the gas station where I filled her tank with the first of many tanks (maaaaany tanks). As we drove down Three Springs Road for [hopefully] the last time, and as I merged with trepidation onto 65 South, I giggled. No, I cackled. Laughter all but bubbled from my toes, quite out of my control. It felt good. She feels just right beneath me, my foot loves her pedal, my legs love her houndstooth. The sun was on its way down to meet the horizon for the night, the shadows grew long and the fields fiery golden. My smile just refused to fade (as my palms refused to stop sweating).I waffled as I drove, though, on the name I thought I had decided on. Poppy. But her red is not a orange-y, tomato-ish, poppy sort of red. Hers is a pure, saturated, blue-red. Red as blood, red as awesome, red as the reddest, wildest, most renegade rose. "Poppy" will have to wait for the fine dog I will one day own, one day when I have a farm and plenty of land for said dog to romp and frolic.
So folks, with a fond remembrance of dear Ol' Black and gratitude for the many years of happiness she afforded, I hereby turn the page and welcome a new era. May I introduce to you the newest member of the family.....
Wild Rose. But for everyday, you can call her Rosie.
