The Truck, the Law, and the U.S.

During hunting season, I take my husky out to the state land after dark. Sure, this makes running on forest trails a bit tricky, but if not that, I’d have to run along the canal trail with endless headlights in my face, or not run at all, or risk the hunters. So I run at night.

About seven o’clock, on my way to the dirt road down to the Stoney Pond trails, I passed a pickup in the parking area, apparently with someone there. I slowed my car and turned the headlights to check it out—some guy in an orange vest just sitting on the tailgate, patiently waiting. I had my suspicions, but he seemed fine, and since I could do nothing, continued.

After parking and running for about a quarter of a mile, my suspicions were likely confirmed. Blam! Blam! Just two shots, and this guy presumably got his deer, illegally, probably even driving over to pick it up. And not unique—a friend who lives 20 miles south of here reports that she hears shots daily before dawn (also illegal), and another woman I frequently run across walking her dog reports chasing hunters off her land regularly.

A few springs ago, I ran into a young guy carrying a bow and arrow, pregnant wife trotting behind him, campers from the campsite half a mile away. “Seen any geese?” he asked. How could I not. I had my dog on a retractable leash precisely because we saw plenty of geese, raising their goslings. Definitely not in season, and for good reason. He even suggested my dog could flush them for him (she’d hunt them herself, however). I declined.

Disregard for the law seems widespread. At first a few, and now many or even most of the nutty drivers doing dumb moves on the road are, as I take a look, on their cell phones. Let’s not even get into speeding or stop signs. Laws apply to other people. We’re a nation of law-breakers.

Starts at the top. The Bush Administration’s “interpretation” of U.S. law the Constitution has been creative at best. During the Nixon Administration’s woes, the mantra was “the President is not above the law.” Contrast that with Cheney’s contention that the administration makes reality.

What do we do with this? The U.S. is in a never-ending war in Iraq because of the Cheney/Rumsfeld version of reality proved either stupid or an outright lie. Certainly the White House lied about the details leading to the conflict. Now the news that the rhetoric about Iran’s nuclear progress is untrue—and was reported to the White House months ago.

What happens when the government actually does tell the truth, should that ever happen? How would we know?

And how can we pretend to be a nation of laws when both government and citizenry ignore those laws they find inconvenient?

We have found the enemy, as Pogo used to report, and “they is us.”

Writer

Mike and Jake

I’m in hell.

I’m exhausted, and I have yet to complete a week packed morning to night with classes, meetings, and rehearsals. Add to that mounds of papers to grade, survey data to compile and evaluate, text adoptions to make, online course to complete and post, midterms to complete, promotions binder to complete—all within the next two weeks. How can I do this? Yet somehow I have to do it—all of it.

Let alone that I’m already ignoring SEVERAL pressing issues at home, from garden to lawn to trees to winterizing to cleaning to home repair to financial paperwork—not to mention relaxing or having fun. Sleep and eating habits aren’t good, I’m tense all the time, and the catherine saga (new readers—see old posts; old readers—updates coming eventually) continues on its ever complicated path. I even pushed a doctor’s appointment this month back to January—I just don’t want to deal with it until I have a little time. And let alone writing and reading projects.

So I had to force myself to go to Stoney Pond with Shanti. Not much of a run, really, just to let her get out.

“Hey! Sorry!” I hear. A black lab comes racing down the trail.

“We’re fine!” I call back. Everything canine looks like nothing more than play.

“Oh! Shanti, is it?” calls a man running around the trail’s bend.

“Yup!” Now I remember—Mike and his dog Jake. Shanti and I have come across them before.

I let Shanti loose to run, knowing they dogs will stay around us.

I don’t have time to talk—but I welcome it. We discuss dogs, past and present, hunters, campers, bicycling and dogs, cross-country skiing, deer, storms and trees, sticks and dogs, training—and more, until the darkening skies and threatening storms get us to pick up and move along, work awaiting. Our dogs, calm after a good, friendly workout, obey our quiet commands immediately and cheerfully, their romp just what they needed.

It’s what I needed as well. Time for a good night’s sleep, and early tomorrow, back to work.

Writer

The Game

Twenty some years ago, when I was finally able to move to the country, I was fascinated by all the sights I loved so much, especially sighting wildlife: “Oh look! A deer!” “Look! Wild turkeys!” “A fox!” “Raccoons!” and so forth. I’m still glad for the change, but long since this has moved to “Would you get your damn ass out of the road?! I’ve got to get to work!!” A few days ago, I had to stop for four coyote pups considering negotiating the road, the “leader” poised with one paw raised (OK, I admit—this was wicked awesome cute).

Perhaps due to the warm weather, 2007 has been The Year of the Chipmunk. They’ve everywhere. Increases in a species aren’t unusual per se—voles have made steady incursions into my and my neighbors’ property—but this is a sudden surge. I could understand this on my own property, as I have a few thousand spruce trees, so I shouldn’t have been surprised when I started seeing chipmunks running across the driveway carrying pine cones larger than the chipmunks themselves—all those pine nuts! I couldn’t help but think of Chip ‘n’ Dale, Disney’s acorn throwing tree dwellers. These creatures, however, aren’t limited to my trees. Stoney Pond, where my dog Shanti and I run daily, has them lined up as if in some chipmunk suburbia. All during the fifteen minute trip down the road to the Pond, kamikaze chipmunks dash from the comparative safety of the side of the road across the road in front of the car—usually about 12-20 feet in front. Their boldness extends beyond motor vehicles, apparently—yesterday I saw one dash across the road with a sparrow RIGHT on his tail, showing the reckless critter what’s what.

Indeed, perhaps the warm weather IS the answer, since after last night’s thunderstorm ushered in much cooler air, I haven’t seen a chipmunk all day—not at home, not on the road, and not on the trails around Stoney Pond. We did come across a gray squirrel, but as they are much faster than chipmunks, even Shanti only watched as it escaped, leaving the safety of its hiding place to run across the trail and take to the trees on the other side.

But squirrels are not the only denizens of the forest, and as I ran up the curving trail, before I noticed any game was afoot, Shanti launched toward whatever it was with such force that her rush on the 26’ retractable leashed jerked me suddenly forward, wrenching my ankle (already nursing an inflamed ligament from a similar injury a few months back) as my foot sharply turned against a small stump in the path. My run abruptly interrupted, I exploded into spontaneous, improvised oratory, considerably more colorful and forceful than, “Oh, gosh golly gee wiz. That really hurts! You know, I really wish you wouldn’t do things like that. Could you perhaps refrain from such practices in the future? I’m truly in a lot of pain here…” Uncontrite, but realizing the jig was up, Shanti lay down, waiting for me to get over it, while I struggled over whether I should continue or just limp back to the car.

I continued, slowly, after issuing the firm command “Back!” Shanti dutifully trotted behind—immediately behind, so close she was stepping on my heels. “BACK!” I barked, in no mood for indulgence, and Shanti eased off a bit—until a few yards later, when she rushed past me toward a fluttering quail. I again extemporized a flurry of provocative prose. Shanti, realizing maybe she had pushed this a bit too far, lay down again. The quail twittered from a short distance away. The run—or slow jog, I should say—resumed, this time with Shanti dutifully behind, behaving.

For a while, that is. After some minutes of peace, Shanti noted that this “run” wasn’t very exciting, and resorted to one of her best tricks—get a stick. Trashing that stick from side to side, running about my heels to get my attention, inviting me to play, always eventually wins me over, and so, as usual, I grabbed the stick and held it at shoulder height—one of her favorite games. She jumps up to wrest the stick from my grasp, beat it up a bit, then come back for more. This game does have the distinct advantage of eventually tiring her out a bit—but it’s also her ticket for once again running in front, and, as usual, the ploy proved successful. We continued the run peacefully, me lost in my thoughts and plans for the work day, Shanti making the rounds of all known dwelling places of both bird and chipmunk.

Then the geese. Shanti and I, both veteran forest roamers, pad along quietly (at least when I’m not practicing invective monologues), and since many other visitors are absent on less than balmy days, we not infrequently surprise game of one sort or another. While the geese are usually alert, even adult geese can be caught off their guard (as Shanti learned as a puppy, unfortunately), and this morning, for the second time this week, we surprised a few families, sending them waddling off for the water at far too slow a pace (the goslings can’t yet fly). Thankfully, I saw them first. Adult geese can be quite intimidating, but Shanti doesn’t know the meaning of the word (literally—beyond my moods and signals, I’ve never seen her read at all). I held her at bay while her would be prey escaped to the pond.

Back in the car, we headed home. Still no chipmunks. A deer ran across the road.

Writer