Yanking trail shoes over socks is enough. Indy hears from three rooms away; I may as well have said walk in his ear. He muzzles me and sings his petition. I rev him, Where’s your leash? Now his croon is resolute.
Indiana Jones is a Yakima Farmdog, a blend of Red Heeler, Husky, and Shepherd. These are guesses, of course, since he bears no pedigree. We rescued him from a vagabond lifestyle that wasn’t working out well.
Deep-chested and athletic, Indy’s the sort of dog that looks good in a bandanna, racing the surf’s curled edge. His medium-length hair is colored caramel, white, and black from tapered snout to crescent tail. Our house is snowed with fur whenever his undercoat blows.
It’s January, dark and clear; a near-full moon makes the chill visible. We push uphill out of our neighborhood and find walking rhythm. I coax my breath to cooperate. Last-minute, I divert onto a side trail; Indy is pleasantly surprised. Trees consume the moonlight and leave us none. It’s easy to picture nocturnal predators, biding, strung for violence. I switch on my Coleman flashlight and script implausible scenarios for Indy and me, repelling a cougar with cinematic panache.
We emerge onto the Tolt Pipeline Trail. The eastern sky is starry, silverscreen-indigo; the flashlight is unneeded under a big moon. Walking westward, an unlikely shade of teal tints the gloaming horizon. This kind of blueness is pilfered from summer and captivatingly out of place – like a full-throated baritone holding one last note.
Indy is suddenly on alert, ears up, white chest flaring. He fixes silently on a shadowed shape barely moonlit. Rabbit? (Good thing I kept him leashed.) I aim, slide the light on. The Coleman’s tight circle tags a figure: untamed, adaptive, gorgeous coyote. I hold my beam on him and he holds his eyes on me, exiting... more like a bird than a dog, ground-flying… more like a ghost than me, vanishing.
I’m a strip of celluloid pulled from the cutting room floor, spliced into someone else’s movie. I look over my shoulder. He wouldn’t follow, would he? He’d keep to the shadows anyway. Indy knows he’s gone and relaxes. Another glance back: two planes fly oppositely, miming stars. Orion bows low to Luna. Cold clearness, so beautiful; suburbia re-animated.
Showing posts with label Tolt Pipeline Trail. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tolt Pipeline Trail. Show all posts
1/21/2008
4/29/2004
Follow Your Dog
Boomer and I stride uphill, toward the farthest cul de sac. We’ll shoot through the footpath to the trail and head west. There’s another big hill that way we can tackle before pushing home. I’m in a crunch for time today, so there’s no dawdling.
As we reach the cul de sac, Boomer’s gaze is fixed on the footpath. He has the aspect of a Pointer. It seems as though he’s counting on his forward focus to overrule any inclination I might have to turn around at this point.
Behind us, a curled maple leaf jumps along the street, animated by the breeze. It makes a hollow, scraping sound. My first startled thought is that it’s an animal skittering toward us.
We stride from the blacktop to the hard packed dirt of the path. Now that we’re off the street I unclip Boomer from his leash. He gallops into his routine of leaving and retrieving scent messages. He might as well be dancing a jig. This is pure, unapologetic pleasure for my dog.
The trail’s attractions call him in a dozen different directions. He plunges into a spray of tall grass, then darts ahead to another, skids into a u-turn and races back to the first as though he’s forgotten something. More snuffling and snorting. He bounds through a pride of dandelions, investigates a mossy branch brought down by a recent windstorm, and sniffs a pudgy lab that’s waddled over to say hi.
I notice an old man in the distance, standing on the trail. It’s hard to tell which direction he’s heading. He stops frequently, and looks this way and that. I guess he’s either disoriented, or just noncommittal about continuing today’s exercise.
He’s dressed for a colder afternoon than this one. He seems breakable and weightless, like the maple leaf. His head is forward and his hamstrings are taut. Age has curled him into a crescent shape.
“Hey Boomer! Heel!” It’s my practice to bring Boomer to my side when we near someone else on the trail. He has pretty fair manners for a dog, but there’s no sense taking chances. It seems best to curtail his frolicking until we’re clear of the elderly hiker.
As the distance shrinks between us I see that he’s smiling at me. I get the feeling he’s anxious to tell me something. He’s waiting for me to come within speaking range. I smile back.
He lifts himself slightly on the balls of his feet as he begins to speak. His voice is small, without resonance. There’s something musical about it, though.
“If you’d follow your dog, ‘stead of the other way around” he offers with a chuckle, “it’d be more interesting for both of you.”
I’d expected a comment about the weather, or perhaps an inquiry about what breed Boomer might be. I laugh with him and say something like, “Yeah, I guess you’re right!” But inside it feels like he’s just nudged me off the rails of my purpose-driven recreation.
I pick up the pace, and make for the killer hill. It’s on my agenda to break a respectable sweat. Boomer dives into a posy of wildflowers, and the old man’s message echoes in my thoughts. I suppose it’s possible for angels to have poor circulation and bad posture.
As we reach the cul de sac, Boomer’s gaze is fixed on the footpath. He has the aspect of a Pointer. It seems as though he’s counting on his forward focus to overrule any inclination I might have to turn around at this point.
Behind us, a curled maple leaf jumps along the street, animated by the breeze. It makes a hollow, scraping sound. My first startled thought is that it’s an animal skittering toward us.
We stride from the blacktop to the hard packed dirt of the path. Now that we’re off the street I unclip Boomer from his leash. He gallops into his routine of leaving and retrieving scent messages. He might as well be dancing a jig. This is pure, unapologetic pleasure for my dog.
The trail’s attractions call him in a dozen different directions. He plunges into a spray of tall grass, then darts ahead to another, skids into a u-turn and races back to the first as though he’s forgotten something. More snuffling and snorting. He bounds through a pride of dandelions, investigates a mossy branch brought down by a recent windstorm, and sniffs a pudgy lab that’s waddled over to say hi.
I notice an old man in the distance, standing on the trail. It’s hard to tell which direction he’s heading. He stops frequently, and looks this way and that. I guess he’s either disoriented, or just noncommittal about continuing today’s exercise.
He’s dressed for a colder afternoon than this one. He seems breakable and weightless, like the maple leaf. His head is forward and his hamstrings are taut. Age has curled him into a crescent shape.
“Hey Boomer! Heel!” It’s my practice to bring Boomer to my side when we near someone else on the trail. He has pretty fair manners for a dog, but there’s no sense taking chances. It seems best to curtail his frolicking until we’re clear of the elderly hiker.
As the distance shrinks between us I see that he’s smiling at me. I get the feeling he’s anxious to tell me something. He’s waiting for me to come within speaking range. I smile back.
He lifts himself slightly on the balls of his feet as he begins to speak. His voice is small, without resonance. There’s something musical about it, though.
“If you’d follow your dog, ‘stead of the other way around” he offers with a chuckle, “it’d be more interesting for both of you.”
I’d expected a comment about the weather, or perhaps an inquiry about what breed Boomer might be. I laugh with him and say something like, “Yeah, I guess you’re right!” But inside it feels like he’s just nudged me off the rails of my purpose-driven recreation.
I pick up the pace, and make for the killer hill. It’s on my agenda to break a respectable sweat. Boomer dives into a posy of wildflowers, and the old man’s message echoes in my thoughts. I suppose it’s possible for angels to have poor circulation and bad posture.
4/06/2004
Willow
The brass-colored sun looks like the bell of an immense trumpet, blaring a single sustained note. Shadows stretch to absurd lengths and taper at the end like Dr. Seuss figures.
The heat of the day lingers into evening. Not long ago we had a hundred consecutive rainy days, but this summer has given us a record streak of days over seventy degrees. Now that it’s September I feel a little disoriented by the nice weather.
My dog, Boomer, and I are walking westward on our favorite trail. The mountains are smudged with a million shades of purple, peach and gold. Two chestnut-colored Vizsla Hounds glide up the hill ahead of us. They move as if they’re weightless – as if they might take flight at any moment.
I’m fascinated by the contrast they provide to Boomer’s heavy, “ground-hugging” gait. His Bulldog and Terrier genes anchor him to the earth.
The Vizslas and their chaperone disappear over a rise. Boomer plows through the taller, greener grass along the side of the trail. With the cooling of dusk a lavish banquet of scents comes loose from each tuft. He wheels around and crashes again through an especially fragrant spray of straw.
Boomer seems happy with his dense musculature and earthbound stride. He wastes no time wishing he were a Vizsla. He grins at me as if to say, “Isn’t this great!” Then, with tags and collar jingling merrily, tears off in search of another bit of territory that needs marking.
We’d normally turn around and head home at this point. I don’t want to go back yet. The cadence of my footsteps reminds me of something important, but I can’t quite put my finger on what it is.
A smoky-gray cat crouches low and glares at us from the other side of a wire fence. Noticing she’s been noticed, she fades into the shadows under a flatbed trailer.
One day two years ago I walked this trail, sorting through my mostly localized joys and sorrows. The next morning, while packing school lunches, I listened to radio reports of airplanes crashing into the Twin Towers. Then I watched on television as the buildings crumbled. My miniscule joys and sorrows, along with my illusions of American life, were swallowed into those horrible craters.
We descend the long, steep hill to the highway, and wait for a break in traffic. Once on the other side, we set out across the valley. I stop midway to admire a very old weeping willow. Boomer is less interested, but waits dutifully at my side. The tree’s green and gold waterfall hisses in the breeze. It forms a circular veil, concealing a grassless grotto around the massive trunk. I part the branches, enjoying the brush of almond-shaped leaves against the back of my hand.
Within the willow’s sanctuary time loosens its grip. This could be 1967, and I could be playing in my grandmother’s yard in New York. A cascade of memories pours over my soul. I resist the temptation to clutch at them, and surrender instead to their brief, bittersweet comfort.
Crying… That’s what this evening’s walk has been like: Crying… My feet have been hitting the ground like tears that won’t stop. Miles and miles of size twelve tears…
Once discovered, the feeling dissipates. I grope after it, but it’s gone like a rhyme I didn’t jot down at three in the morning.
“C’mon, Boo’ – this way…”
The trail continues up the opposite bank of the river, and snakes into the trees. I very much want to see if it leads to Lake Washington, but the river blocks our way. We turn north instead.
I feel like weeping, but my eyes remain dry. There are too few tears for the task. The sadness of what was lost on September Eleventh is still impossible for me to process. And its long shadow darkens my insides.
The Sammamish is a river in name only; it’s really a slow-moving, algae-laden slough, and after our dry summer its stench is remarkable. A slough must be a river that forgot where it was going.
I feel an urgency to remember where my heart was going before it went into shock two years ago. The slough’s putrid reek makes it hard to breathe. God, don’t let my heart go stagnant! Somehow I have to figure out how to grieve – how to recover the flow of my own sorrow and joy.
Boomer is panting with thirst, but there is no fresh water until we reach the park in downtown Woodinville. I cup my hand to the fountain and deliver tiny drinks to him until he’s satisfied.
The sun has faded completely. It’s dark. My better judgment knows the road is too busy and its shoulder too narrow to walk without a flashlight. So, when my cell phone rings I accept my daughter’s offer to drive out and pick us up.
The heat of the day lingers into evening. Not long ago we had a hundred consecutive rainy days, but this summer has given us a record streak of days over seventy degrees. Now that it’s September I feel a little disoriented by the nice weather.
My dog, Boomer, and I are walking westward on our favorite trail. The mountains are smudged with a million shades of purple, peach and gold. Two chestnut-colored Vizsla Hounds glide up the hill ahead of us. They move as if they’re weightless – as if they might take flight at any moment.
I’m fascinated by the contrast they provide to Boomer’s heavy, “ground-hugging” gait. His Bulldog and Terrier genes anchor him to the earth.
The Vizslas and their chaperone disappear over a rise. Boomer plows through the taller, greener grass along the side of the trail. With the cooling of dusk a lavish banquet of scents comes loose from each tuft. He wheels around and crashes again through an especially fragrant spray of straw.
Boomer seems happy with his dense musculature and earthbound stride. He wastes no time wishing he were a Vizsla. He grins at me as if to say, “Isn’t this great!” Then, with tags and collar jingling merrily, tears off in search of another bit of territory that needs marking.
We’d normally turn around and head home at this point. I don’t want to go back yet. The cadence of my footsteps reminds me of something important, but I can’t quite put my finger on what it is.
A smoky-gray cat crouches low and glares at us from the other side of a wire fence. Noticing she’s been noticed, she fades into the shadows under a flatbed trailer.
One day two years ago I walked this trail, sorting through my mostly localized joys and sorrows. The next morning, while packing school lunches, I listened to radio reports of airplanes crashing into the Twin Towers. Then I watched on television as the buildings crumbled. My miniscule joys and sorrows, along with my illusions of American life, were swallowed into those horrible craters.
We descend the long, steep hill to the highway, and wait for a break in traffic. Once on the other side, we set out across the valley. I stop midway to admire a very old weeping willow. Boomer is less interested, but waits dutifully at my side. The tree’s green and gold waterfall hisses in the breeze. It forms a circular veil, concealing a grassless grotto around the massive trunk. I part the branches, enjoying the brush of almond-shaped leaves against the back of my hand.
Within the willow’s sanctuary time loosens its grip. This could be 1967, and I could be playing in my grandmother’s yard in New York. A cascade of memories pours over my soul. I resist the temptation to clutch at them, and surrender instead to their brief, bittersweet comfort.
Crying… That’s what this evening’s walk has been like: Crying… My feet have been hitting the ground like tears that won’t stop. Miles and miles of size twelve tears…
Once discovered, the feeling dissipates. I grope after it, but it’s gone like a rhyme I didn’t jot down at three in the morning.
“C’mon, Boo’ – this way…”
The trail continues up the opposite bank of the river, and snakes into the trees. I very much want to see if it leads to Lake Washington, but the river blocks our way. We turn north instead.
I feel like weeping, but my eyes remain dry. There are too few tears for the task. The sadness of what was lost on September Eleventh is still impossible for me to process. And its long shadow darkens my insides.
The Sammamish is a river in name only; it’s really a slow-moving, algae-laden slough, and after our dry summer its stench is remarkable. A slough must be a river that forgot where it was going.
I feel an urgency to remember where my heart was going before it went into shock two years ago. The slough’s putrid reek makes it hard to breathe. God, don’t let my heart go stagnant! Somehow I have to figure out how to grieve – how to recover the flow of my own sorrow and joy.
Boomer is panting with thirst, but there is no fresh water until we reach the park in downtown Woodinville. I cup my hand to the fountain and deliver tiny drinks to him until he’s satisfied.
The sun has faded completely. It’s dark. My better judgment knows the road is too busy and its shoulder too narrow to walk without a flashlight. So, when my cell phone rings I accept my daughter’s offer to drive out and pick us up.
4/03/2004
Snowday
I’m wearing two pairs of socks and huge hiking boots. Granted, huge hiking boots are the only sort that fit me. I am doing something that is a little too fast to be called trudging, and considerably too slow to be called running. It’s something in between, and it’s the best I can muster.
The Pacific Northwest doesn’t get much snow – at least, not by the standards of someone who grew up in New York State. On the rare winter days when it snows here, it doesn’t usually stick around for long. Today is different – today we have real snow.
Boomer hails from Wenatchee and shares my appreciation for the genuine article. He turned twelve years old last autumn, but that doesn’t stop him from probing the cold powder like a pup. I can’t ignore the fact that he’s aging, though. For one thing, his hearing has begun to deteriorate. Sometimes he doesn’t hear me when I call him. In fact, that’s why I’m on his trail right now. We need to turn around and head home, but he’s oblivious to my shouts. He cruises unswervingly onward into the west.
As much as I don’t really want to be chugging up this snowy hill, I’m conscious of at least two good things about it. The first is that I am, amazingly enough, gaining on my little canine friend. The second is that my wife has joined us on this walk, and she’s watching me. It occurs to me mid-huff, that (puff…) I’m showing off for her. I’m proving that the old buck can still hoof it on the high places. We’re able to share this unspoken fiction because, to her great credit, my wife chooses to see me through the charitable lens of her imagination.
I’ve closed to within five or six feet of Boomer and he still hasn’t heard me coming up behind him. An old memory flickers into focus. I see myself as a young Scout, furtively following my Dad through the woods. He was helping me earn a merit badge that had something to do with tracking. My challenge was to follow him for a specified period of time without being seen or heard.
It was autumn, so the ground was covered with dead leaves and brittle twigs. That didn’t matter. I moved with the quick, decisive stealth of a Mohawk brave. I remember scampering from tree to tree, crouching behind mossy stumps, and going flat in the undergrowth whenever my Dad looked around. It was so exciting to discover this hidden talent of mine!
At the end of the prescribed span of minutes my Dad stopped walking and called off the hunt. As he checked the box next to the tracking requirement in my Scout book, I asked him how I’d done. With the vaguest trace of a smirk he told me that I’d sounded something like a young buffalo. I was pretty sure “Young Buffalo” wasn’t the name of a famous Mohawk brave from days gone by.
But today I’m panting up a snowy hill after a hard-of-hearing dog. Even with my limited aptitude for stealth, Boomer hasn’t yet perked to my crashing footfalls. From pointblank range I shout his name, and he swivels around in shock. His ears go back, and he curls into a submissive pose. This is unprecedented in his experience with me so he isn’t sure what’s going to happen next. He fears it might involve punishment. It doesn’t. I’ve learned lately that his problem isn’t rebellion (well, at least not in this case); his problem is entropy.
I say, “C’mon, let’s go home.” Relieved and chipper he makes for the foot trail that leads toward home. He’s a puppy again for a few more minutes. I let him run a little ways farther before putting his leash back on him.
The Pacific Northwest doesn’t get much snow – at least, not by the standards of someone who grew up in New York State. On the rare winter days when it snows here, it doesn’t usually stick around for long. Today is different – today we have real snow.
Boomer hails from Wenatchee and shares my appreciation for the genuine article. He turned twelve years old last autumn, but that doesn’t stop him from probing the cold powder like a pup. I can’t ignore the fact that he’s aging, though. For one thing, his hearing has begun to deteriorate. Sometimes he doesn’t hear me when I call him. In fact, that’s why I’m on his trail right now. We need to turn around and head home, but he’s oblivious to my shouts. He cruises unswervingly onward into the west.
As much as I don’t really want to be chugging up this snowy hill, I’m conscious of at least two good things about it. The first is that I am, amazingly enough, gaining on my little canine friend. The second is that my wife has joined us on this walk, and she’s watching me. It occurs to me mid-huff, that (puff…) I’m showing off for her. I’m proving that the old buck can still hoof it on the high places. We’re able to share this unspoken fiction because, to her great credit, my wife chooses to see me through the charitable lens of her imagination.
I’ve closed to within five or six feet of Boomer and he still hasn’t heard me coming up behind him. An old memory flickers into focus. I see myself as a young Scout, furtively following my Dad through the woods. He was helping me earn a merit badge that had something to do with tracking. My challenge was to follow him for a specified period of time without being seen or heard.
It was autumn, so the ground was covered with dead leaves and brittle twigs. That didn’t matter. I moved with the quick, decisive stealth of a Mohawk brave. I remember scampering from tree to tree, crouching behind mossy stumps, and going flat in the undergrowth whenever my Dad looked around. It was so exciting to discover this hidden talent of mine!
At the end of the prescribed span of minutes my Dad stopped walking and called off the hunt. As he checked the box next to the tracking requirement in my Scout book, I asked him how I’d done. With the vaguest trace of a smirk he told me that I’d sounded something like a young buffalo. I was pretty sure “Young Buffalo” wasn’t the name of a famous Mohawk brave from days gone by.
But today I’m panting up a snowy hill after a hard-of-hearing dog. Even with my limited aptitude for stealth, Boomer hasn’t yet perked to my crashing footfalls. From pointblank range I shout his name, and he swivels around in shock. His ears go back, and he curls into a submissive pose. This is unprecedented in his experience with me so he isn’t sure what’s going to happen next. He fears it might involve punishment. It doesn’t. I’ve learned lately that his problem isn’t rebellion (well, at least not in this case); his problem is entropy.
I say, “C’mon, let’s go home.” Relieved and chipper he makes for the foot trail that leads toward home. He’s a puppy again for a few more minutes. I let him run a little ways farther before putting his leash back on him.
3/30/2004
Off Leash
The drizzle has returned. Autumn arrived today without waiting for a proper introduction. This rain is the sort that patiently saturates everything it touches… its misty drops easily penetrating jackets, hats, and hair.
Boomer doesn’t like rain. He’d be back inside on his pillow by now if he weren’t sure we were heading for the Pipeline trail. But getting soaked to the skin is a price he willingly pays for a decent walk.
Once off the street and through the gate to the trail, I remove his leash and let him run. He’s particularly spry today, and launches himself into the scraggly trailside grass. His muscular, ground-hugging gait is comically beautiful. He is propelled by the notion that he can outrun the rain. I call him and he wheels around, coming just close enough to reassure me that he’s not planning to make a break for it. I say, “OK, go ahead” and he takes off again.
My willingness to trust Boomer off leash is a recent development. Since he came to us by way of the Humane Society, I didn’t know what to expect. Frankly, I had serious doubts that he would even stay in our own yard voluntarily! The thought of a dog that would not bolt at the first opportunity was pure fiction to me. I’d never owned a dog trained in the lovely art of obedience.
The first dog I ever met was a hound named Freckles. My parents had adopted her before I was born. She’d been found on the fringe of my grandparents’ farm – a newborn puppy, abandoned and starving. My folks nursed her back to health and she never went hungry again, not even for a few minutes… She was portly from that time on. Her homebody nature most likely had less to do with obedience than appetite, though. She had a strong inner tether to her food bowl.
Next came Buffy, whom we adopted after Freckles had gone to the happy snacking grounds in the sky. She was some sort of Spaniel and Golden Retriever mix – an irresistible little puffball that grew up svelte, pretty, and energetic. Hyper is probably a better word. Her outdoor life was lived at the end of a rope that was attached to a clothesline-style run. If she got loose she got lost. Outta there… See ya… Arrivederci, baby… And then the chase was on, which appeared to please her as much as the escape itself. But at least Buffy had a modicum of respect for automotive technology, which is far more than can be said for Tuck.
When my wife and I were newly married, before our first child was born, I decided we should take a page from my parents’ book and get a dog. Enter “Nantucket of the North”, a purebred “red and white” Siberian Husky. (I should’ve held out for a starving hound dog.)
One of the many important lessons I learned from Tuck was that it is unwise (read: stupid) to own a Husky that hasn’t had obedience training before reaching six months of age unless you also own a yard that resembles the Iditarod dog-sledding course.
Tuck possessed an uncanny knack for breaking or slipping whatever rope, chain, or collar I put on him. He viewed all of creation as his turf, including the paved parts. So, once free, he was prone to carouse the streets, more or less oblivious to the large steel animals speeding back and forth. When a car approached, his thought seemed to be “I’m not sure what that thing is but I know I could kick its butt.” Unfortunately, he was wrong about that.
Needless to say, when we reopened the topic of dog ownership it was with fear and trembling, shamelessly begging for God’s mercy. He heard those prayers and led us to a dog that not only understands English, but also does what he’s told! (Well, most of the time…)
Linguistically gifted as he is, however, I doubt Boomer’s ability to comprehend the fact that outrunning raindrops is usually a fruitless endeavor. So I let him keep trying, full throttle and smiling from one pinned-back ear to the other.
As I watch him dart from grass clump to ditch to fallen branch, I realize a brotherly connection to him. I know what it’s like to be trusted “off leash”. And I suspect that God’s delight in my freedom includes a touch of amusement too. After all, my quirks and antics must make just as hilarious a picture as Boomer trying to outrun the rain.
As a matter of fact, I see myself in the other dogs too. Freckles maintained a tight orbit around her center of security, the kitchen. If I’m honest about it, there have been times when I’ve stuck close to regulated religion for a similar reason: it met my needs. I found food there, and I grew fat there. But there is a difference between obedience and spiritual self-indulgence.
Like Buffy I have felt the pinch of artificial restraint. I’m acquainted with the sense that my life is little more than a length of rope keeping all the good stuff out of reach. Looking back now, I think I better understand the spark in her orange eyes: it meant, “If only I could be out there…”
True, there is a sort of comfort in rules – life’s limits seem predetermined and clear. Legalism promises to alleviate the challenge of learning how to listen, understand, and respond to a living voice. Buffy broke the law of the leash whenever possible. She knew next to nothing about obedience, but she loved being chased, and hearing the sound of voices behind her, calling, “Buffy… Get back here! Hey! Buffy…”
I often wish it were tenable to see life as Tuck did, without borders, boundaries or danger. There is something very appealing about that ideal. But freedom at the expense of truth is not sustainable. More than once I’ve misjudged my own ability to handle the headlights that have come speeding toward me out of the dark.
Boomer traces a wide, leisurely arc back to my side. I didn’t call him this time, but he apparently wants to check in and make sure I’m still paying attention. Somehow he seems to know when I’m daydreaming.
And so I come back to my deep appreciation of this little black-brindled brick of a dog. Like him, I have learned the resonant goodness of hearing and heeding my master’s voice – of understanding his language, and choosing to stay close enough to hear. Like him I occasionally lapse backward into smaller ways of living. But having once experienced what it’s like to run in the divine tension of freedom and obedience nothing else will do.
“’Come and follow me!’ At once they dropped what they were doing and followed him.” Mark’s Gospel Account, 1:17a, 18
Boomer doesn’t like rain. He’d be back inside on his pillow by now if he weren’t sure we were heading for the Pipeline trail. But getting soaked to the skin is a price he willingly pays for a decent walk.
Once off the street and through the gate to the trail, I remove his leash and let him run. He’s particularly spry today, and launches himself into the scraggly trailside grass. His muscular, ground-hugging gait is comically beautiful. He is propelled by the notion that he can outrun the rain. I call him and he wheels around, coming just close enough to reassure me that he’s not planning to make a break for it. I say, “OK, go ahead” and he takes off again.
My willingness to trust Boomer off leash is a recent development. Since he came to us by way of the Humane Society, I didn’t know what to expect. Frankly, I had serious doubts that he would even stay in our own yard voluntarily! The thought of a dog that would not bolt at the first opportunity was pure fiction to me. I’d never owned a dog trained in the lovely art of obedience.
The first dog I ever met was a hound named Freckles. My parents had adopted her before I was born. She’d been found on the fringe of my grandparents’ farm – a newborn puppy, abandoned and starving. My folks nursed her back to health and she never went hungry again, not even for a few minutes… She was portly from that time on. Her homebody nature most likely had less to do with obedience than appetite, though. She had a strong inner tether to her food bowl.
Next came Buffy, whom we adopted after Freckles had gone to the happy snacking grounds in the sky. She was some sort of Spaniel and Golden Retriever mix – an irresistible little puffball that grew up svelte, pretty, and energetic. Hyper is probably a better word. Her outdoor life was lived at the end of a rope that was attached to a clothesline-style run. If she got loose she got lost. Outta there… See ya… Arrivederci, baby… And then the chase was on, which appeared to please her as much as the escape itself. But at least Buffy had a modicum of respect for automotive technology, which is far more than can be said for Tuck.
When my wife and I were newly married, before our first child was born, I decided we should take a page from my parents’ book and get a dog. Enter “Nantucket of the North”, a purebred “red and white” Siberian Husky. (I should’ve held out for a starving hound dog.)
One of the many important lessons I learned from Tuck was that it is unwise (read: stupid) to own a Husky that hasn’t had obedience training before reaching six months of age unless you also own a yard that resembles the Iditarod dog-sledding course.
Tuck possessed an uncanny knack for breaking or slipping whatever rope, chain, or collar I put on him. He viewed all of creation as his turf, including the paved parts. So, once free, he was prone to carouse the streets, more or less oblivious to the large steel animals speeding back and forth. When a car approached, his thought seemed to be “I’m not sure what that thing is but I know I could kick its butt.” Unfortunately, he was wrong about that.
Needless to say, when we reopened the topic of dog ownership it was with fear and trembling, shamelessly begging for God’s mercy. He heard those prayers and led us to a dog that not only understands English, but also does what he’s told! (Well, most of the time…)
Linguistically gifted as he is, however, I doubt Boomer’s ability to comprehend the fact that outrunning raindrops is usually a fruitless endeavor. So I let him keep trying, full throttle and smiling from one pinned-back ear to the other.
As I watch him dart from grass clump to ditch to fallen branch, I realize a brotherly connection to him. I know what it’s like to be trusted “off leash”. And I suspect that God’s delight in my freedom includes a touch of amusement too. After all, my quirks and antics must make just as hilarious a picture as Boomer trying to outrun the rain.
As a matter of fact, I see myself in the other dogs too. Freckles maintained a tight orbit around her center of security, the kitchen. If I’m honest about it, there have been times when I’ve stuck close to regulated religion for a similar reason: it met my needs. I found food there, and I grew fat there. But there is a difference between obedience and spiritual self-indulgence.
Like Buffy I have felt the pinch of artificial restraint. I’m acquainted with the sense that my life is little more than a length of rope keeping all the good stuff out of reach. Looking back now, I think I better understand the spark in her orange eyes: it meant, “If only I could be out there…”
True, there is a sort of comfort in rules – life’s limits seem predetermined and clear. Legalism promises to alleviate the challenge of learning how to listen, understand, and respond to a living voice. Buffy broke the law of the leash whenever possible. She knew next to nothing about obedience, but she loved being chased, and hearing the sound of voices behind her, calling, “Buffy… Get back here! Hey! Buffy…”
I often wish it were tenable to see life as Tuck did, without borders, boundaries or danger. There is something very appealing about that ideal. But freedom at the expense of truth is not sustainable. More than once I’ve misjudged my own ability to handle the headlights that have come speeding toward me out of the dark.
Boomer traces a wide, leisurely arc back to my side. I didn’t call him this time, but he apparently wants to check in and make sure I’m still paying attention. Somehow he seems to know when I’m daydreaming.
And so I come back to my deep appreciation of this little black-brindled brick of a dog. Like him, I have learned the resonant goodness of hearing and heeding my master’s voice – of understanding his language, and choosing to stay close enough to hear. Like him I occasionally lapse backward into smaller ways of living. But having once experienced what it’s like to run in the divine tension of freedom and obedience nothing else will do.
“’Come and follow me!’ At once they dropped what they were doing and followed him.” Mark’s Gospel Account, 1:17a, 18
3/24/2004
The Best Treadmill I Ever Bought Was A Dog
Scott Burnett
Ten minutes into our walk we are pushing to the top of the second hill. It is less of an effort for my companion than it is for me. He has a lower center of gravity, and four points of contact with the earth. He pulls forward, keeping the leash and the muscles of my left arm taut. He is not trying to yank free; he is simply anxious to get on to wherever we’re going. At least, this is how I choose to see it.
At the gate to the pipeline trail there is a zinc-painted post. Around its base grows an unmowable tuft of scrub grass. For my dog, it is an olfactory NPR – one of his favorite stations along the way for sniffing out the day’s news. He plunges in nose-first, then looks up smiling, ears perked as if he’s heard the familiar chime of a wave file: “You’ve got mail…” Pee-mail, that is. He lifts his leg and replies to all.
I say, “C’mon!” and we’re on our way again. As far as I can tell, Boomer gives no thought to the mechanics of his gait. I, on the other hand, am trying to remember to keep my ankles square with my hips, and to leverage from my thighs in order to save wear and tear on my knees. Boomer darts to the left, making a lateral lunge for another exceedingly interesting mound of grass. I let out some slack from the leash, and continue walking. By now he knows the rhythm of my stride, and how long he has before the tug hits his collar, so he works quickly. Squirt-squirt. He’s just initialed an important document that is completely invisible to me. “Come!” and he’s back at my side, pulling ahead as if to imply that it was I who’d been sidetracked.
The gravel crunches underfoot like granola for breakfast. These walks have been good food for me: body, soul, and mind. Regular exercise does not come easily to me, but Boomer has reintroduced a long missing ingredient into the mix. Play. He makes me want to walk, and he gives me a reason to go even when I don’t feel like it. He is a spring-loaded, stinky-kissing, let’s-go-eyed, black-brindled reason to strap on my sneakers, don my fedora, and dive into the drizzly night. Gorgeous, pastoral summer days are very rare in our neck of the woods, so a commitment to consistent outdoor exercise is bound to be tested often.
But today is one of those rare perfect days that would make the whole world move to Seattle if word were to get out. Behind us are the Cascade Mountains, in front of us the Olympics. The manmade, flat-sided peaks of the cities are also visible, flashing reflected sunshine our direction. Close by, there are amply pastured horses, and beautifully landscaped estates. The dragonflies are back. The sun is hot, the breeze is cool, and the air is full of fragrances. Cut grass, manure, and a hundred varieties of flower converge upon my woefully sub-canine sniffer. I can only imagine the stories Boomer is reading on the wind.
Squirt-squirt. Boomer, to his way of thinking, now owns another strategic clump of grass along the trail. It seems like a good way of thinking to me. In fact, from this vantage point, my soul is inclined to lay claim to two mountain ranges, thousands of verdant acres, a salmon stream, and this well-kept trail running straight through the middle of it all.
Scott Burnett
Ten minutes into our walk we are pushing to the top of the second hill. It is less of an effort for my companion than it is for me. He has a lower center of gravity, and four points of contact with the earth. He pulls forward, keeping the leash and the muscles of my left arm taut. He is not trying to yank free; he is simply anxious to get on to wherever we’re going. At least, this is how I choose to see it.
At the gate to the pipeline trail there is a zinc-painted post. Around its base grows an unmowable tuft of scrub grass. For my dog, it is an olfactory NPR – one of his favorite stations along the way for sniffing out the day’s news. He plunges in nose-first, then looks up smiling, ears perked as if he’s heard the familiar chime of a wave file: “You’ve got mail…” Pee-mail, that is. He lifts his leg and replies to all.
I say, “C’mon!” and we’re on our way again. As far as I can tell, Boomer gives no thought to the mechanics of his gait. I, on the other hand, am trying to remember to keep my ankles square with my hips, and to leverage from my thighs in order to save wear and tear on my knees. Boomer darts to the left, making a lateral lunge for another exceedingly interesting mound of grass. I let out some slack from the leash, and continue walking. By now he knows the rhythm of my stride, and how long he has before the tug hits his collar, so he works quickly. Squirt-squirt. He’s just initialed an important document that is completely invisible to me. “Come!” and he’s back at my side, pulling ahead as if to imply that it was I who’d been sidetracked.
The gravel crunches underfoot like granola for breakfast. These walks have been good food for me: body, soul, and mind. Regular exercise does not come easily to me, but Boomer has reintroduced a long missing ingredient into the mix. Play. He makes me want to walk, and he gives me a reason to go even when I don’t feel like it. He is a spring-loaded, stinky-kissing, let’s-go-eyed, black-brindled reason to strap on my sneakers, don my fedora, and dive into the drizzly night. Gorgeous, pastoral summer days are very rare in our neck of the woods, so a commitment to consistent outdoor exercise is bound to be tested often.
But today is one of those rare perfect days that would make the whole world move to Seattle if word were to get out. Behind us are the Cascade Mountains, in front of us the Olympics. The manmade, flat-sided peaks of the cities are also visible, flashing reflected sunshine our direction. Close by, there are amply pastured horses, and beautifully landscaped estates. The dragonflies are back. The sun is hot, the breeze is cool, and the air is full of fragrances. Cut grass, manure, and a hundred varieties of flower converge upon my woefully sub-canine sniffer. I can only imagine the stories Boomer is reading on the wind.
Squirt-squirt. Boomer, to his way of thinking, now owns another strategic clump of grass along the trail. It seems like a good way of thinking to me. In fact, from this vantage point, my soul is inclined to lay claim to two mountain ranges, thousands of verdant acres, a salmon stream, and this well-kept trail running straight through the middle of it all.
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