suburbia re-animated

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.

Shorthairs

The roof of the El Camino’s cab was just high enough to put me out of reach. Two of four riled-up German Shorthairs lunged up at me with teeth bared, frothy pink and black jowls flapping.

The other two were hard after Donny Van Etten. I yelled to him, “Get up on DeWitt’s car!” What I actually screamed was probably not as clear and concise as that, but he got the message just in time. He scrambled to safety atop a car parked a little farther down Codwise Street.

The El Camino and the German Shorthairs belonged to our neighbor, Meatball. It was normal for the one to be out on the street, but not the others. By the time we noticed that the big dogs were loose, they’d already zeroed in on us.

The sharp sting of teeth pinching my rump inspired a new way of thinking. I hadn’t previously seen an El Camino’s roof as a haven of escape, but crisis had caused me to redefine my cognitive categories.

We waited not-so-patiently for the ruckus to rouse Meatball to our rescue. The dogs no doubt expected their master to run out in his plaids, praise them for their work, and neatly despatch us with his thirty-odd-six.

Fortunately, Meatball was our friend so he didn’t do that. Instead, he scolded the dogs and sent them back to their pen confused and sorely disappointed.

As soon as the coast was clear, Donny and I slid down off the cars and ran home. Between sobs, I blurted fragmented details of the ordeal to my parents. Describing the drama to them while they inspected my skin for damage helped me settle down. It began the curative shift toward framing my distress in the past tense.

Stick-No-Stick

I walk with a friend along the left edge of America. We’re wandering a wedge of sand bordered to the west by the Pacific Ocean, and to the north by the town of Yachats, Oregon. We’re separated from the town by a little river that flattens across the beach, and then surrenders to the pull of waves. We talk about the unique habitat created by the confluence of freshwater and saltwater, and the specialized ecosystem thriving there.

He and I are recovering fundamentalists. Our conversation turns to the allure of legalism – the delicious illusion that life’s choices can be neatly parsed into two simple categories: right and wrong. And we wonder together how we might distinguish between legitimate personal convictions on one hand, and brittle dogmatism on the other.

Into the middle of our ruminations bounds a shaggy Shepherd-Lab mix, black with white-tipped ears, feet, and tail. In his teeth he grips the charred nub of someone’s marshmallow stick, plucked from the cold remains of a beach fire. His expectant eyes and wagging tail leave no doubt about his wish. My friend obliges and tosses the spindly fetch-toy. With undiluted delight the dog retrieves the stick and deposits it at my feet. I fling it Frisbee-style, then scrub off the saliva with a handful of sand. This time, instead of bringing it to us, he swerves south toward the wave-muted sound of his name.

In a few minutes he’s back, along with two dachshunds and two humans. The dachshunds appear sophisticated and reserved, and slightly embarrassed by their large companion’s exuberance. The humans look like seasoned veterans of the counterculture, perhaps teachers or writers or potters. They smile toward the mongrel and apologize for his attenuated cognitive faculties. The woman says, “He has a very limited view of the world.” “Yes,” the man adds, “he sees all things in terms of stick-no-stick.”

We laugh with them, and I note the parallel to binary code. My friend says, “Right! It’s all about zeroes and ones…”

We walk silently for a while. I’m not satisfied with our assessment of the dog’s fetching obsession. Could it be that he isn’t really stuck in a recursive loop of dimwittedness? But rather that he’s endlessly compelled to give up the stick in order to feel the joy of having it again? Maybe he’s intuited the balance of possession and generosity, paired together in a spirit of playfulness.

I glance toward my soul. Sadly, it has the look of a haughty dachshund. Embarrassed by possession, afraid of generosity, distracted from the play at hand… I lift my eyes to the beauty of the beachscape and pray for the wisdom of stick-no-stick.

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.

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.

Crossing the Esopus

Off the beaten paths of my stomping grounds it wasn’t unusual to see the occasional homemade dump. An interesting characteristic of these unsanctioned piles was their power to solicit anonymous contributions.

I once saw a wooden boat hull protruding from a heap of bent aluminum lawn chairs, bald tires, and rusted appliances. Possibly a modest yacht in its prime, now its husk was all that was left.

At the time, I was working for the Town of Ulster Highway Department. Every summer the town hired as many local teenage boys as its budget would allow, and busied their idle hands with two weeks of menial labor. We dubbed ourselves townies.

A dump truck shuttled us to various remote locations where we’d usually be turned loose on a mess of weeds that needed clearing. Our foreman, Bill, was a white-haired Highway Department retiree. His task was to teach us a thing or two about government work.

When we arrived at a worksite, Bill’s instructions were always the same. “Okay now boys, do a little somethin’.” We’d make a good show of it in the cool of the morning, then stop for a break at 10:30. A less enthusiastic effort generally led up to lunch, over which we’d linger for as long as possible. After lunch we’d mostly lean on our shovels and scythes until the truck returned for us around mid-afternoon. Before leaving, Bill would survey the area and say, “Well, it looks a hell of a lot better than it did when we got here.”

The discarded hull appeared on a day when we’d been dropped off near the Esopus Creek. The Esopus begins as a little trout stream, but ends up being sixty-five miles long and averaging forty feet across. It has many personalities. This particular stretch was muddy with frothy suds bobbing here and there. Nonetheless, its shady shore was the perfect place to take our sack lunches. Bill tacitly approved of the idea since we weren’t likely to be seen by passing taxpayers. On our way down the dirt road to the creek we spied the derelict vessel.

With more sweat than we’d shed on the town’s behalf that morning, we managed to haul her down to the water’s edge. I hollered that we should shove off and jump aboard. Everyone yelled, “Aye-aye!” and shoved hard, but only two of us jumped. The others had better sense than to board a boat that had been dragged from a trash heap.

The craft unexpectedly stayed afloat. The Yoo-hoo colored current turned out to be much stronger than it looked. We were quickly in the middle of the creek, drifting downstream. Clearly, the situation called for decisive action.

My accidental co-adventurer was barely an acquaintance. I don’t think I even knew his name, but we skipped the introductions. He had the bow, I had the stern. The back of his head is really all I remember about him.

I ripped a piece of wood from the hull and started paddling. My shipmate chipped in and paddled with his hands. We weren’t about to swallow our pride and turn back. Our cronies – who were now bent over with laughter – had to be shown how much fun they were missing. We aimed for the opposite shore.

Getting across wasn’t easy. The hull filled with water, and was mostly submerged by the time we finally struck land. We sloshed ashore to take stock of the situation.

The beach was a thin strip of sandy clay, walled by a steep, overgrown bank. I decided to climb up and just start walking once I got my bearings. As far as I was concerned, we’d reached the every-man-for-himself stage of our journey.

I scrambled up, hand and foot. It was a slippery, itchy business. I parted the last tangle of bushes and was surprised by the bared teeth of a snarling dog. He changed my mind about hopping the wire fence that separated us.

I slid back down the bank and saw something happening on the other shore. My buddies were putting the finishing touches on a makeshift raft. It involved two droopy inner tubes and a wooden pallet. Since it would hold only two, my fellow castaway and I would have to be rescued one at a time.

I was odd man out for the first return voyage, so I stood at the water’s edge and watched them arm-paddle the fifty-plus feet back to the other side. Not surprisingly, the raft came apart as they reached the shallows.

My friends tried to repair it, but it looked like I’d have to return the same way I’d come. I got busy emptying the sunken hull of as much creekwater as I could, and pushed off. Halfway across, she went down for good and I had to swim for it.

Swimming was never a strong suit of mine, but I knew enough to find a focal point on the shore and flail toward it with all my might. Panic escorted me until I got to where my feet could touch bottom. I splashed and spluttered out of the drink, and fell forward onto dry land. I lay there for a while, flat and thankful.

The rest of the day was ordinary, if a tad soggy. We finished our lunches and went back to hacking weeds. The dump truck rumbled up for us, and Bill pronounced his blessing on our labors.

“Well boys, it looks a hell of a lot better than it did when we got here.”

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

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.