Long days. Too much everything. At the end of this day, despite the late hour and approaching darkness, I call my dog and head to Stoney Pond, not for the run I missed, but for a long walk. The trouble with troubles is that the mind races, preventing solution—or at least working against one.
We start the walk—a calm, peaceful night, the scent of moisture in the air, the weather warm before an approaching cold front. My dog races about, sometimes straining the 26’ retractable leash, sniffing about, sometimes digging furiously until I call her.
I’m thinking about the hour I wasted before we left. My college has embraced something called “Strengths Quest” as a tool for students and faculty. I was handed my access code a few months ago. Although I rolled my eyes at the presentation two months ago, I finally decided to log on.
Good grief. Who are these clowns?
Two unseen geese take off honking, warning the others of our approach.
Two of my “five strengths” aren’t even words—“Ideation” and “Intellection” [I swear—I’m serious—that’s their taxonomy]. Two others (and notice these labels aren’t even parallel) simply repeated my answers to the ridiculous questions: “Strategic” and “Learner”. The fifth took what I said and bizarrely exaggerated on no evidence: “Maximizer.” The off-shoot of all this is that I like to take time to think and plan, that I’m good at absorbing information and readily seek it as needed, and that I build on my strengths rather than obsess about weaknesses. [Well, duh, yeah---]
Then consider the hundreds of areas the brain-trusts who designed this atrocity simply ignored. Arggh. This is scholarship? No wonder colleges can’t achieve demonstrable results (except in artificial areas measured by arbitrary vehicles such as this nonsense).
An eerie sound dominates the walk, like a cicada invasion (but it’s too early for insects), or more like a science fiction film. Actually, it’s frogs, peepers, so many that the sound just meshes together into a spooky, constant barrage, an effect amplified by the evening quiet and the rapidly darkening sky. A little further along the path, another sound slips underneath, more frogs, but croakers this time. I know what will happen, and it does. As we approach a side pond, home to the croakers, the sound abruptly stops, almost as suddenly as throwing off a switch. Amazing. The peepers continue.
Across the water, somebody’s in the campground. A radio plays rock music. Lights shine.
I think about the book I’m reading, a book I first read several years ago, Hesse’s “The Glass Bead Game.” I’m teaching it in my sophomore literature class. Now, of course, I see several things I missed the first time I read it, including the themes of his other novels and the playful irony of the work. It speaks to me as much now as it did then—no doubt in large part because Hesse and I share an interest in music and Eastern philosophy (though the book involves much more than just that). I’ve always remembered this passage, one I accidentally turned directly to when flipping pages:
“This landscape of clouds and sky. At first glance you might think that the depths are there where it is darkest; but then you realize that the darkness and softness are only the clouds and that the depths of the universe begin only at the fringes and fjords of this mountain range of clouds—solemn and supreme symbols of clarity and orderliness. The depths and the mysteries of the universe lie not where the clouds and blackness are; the depths are to be found in the spaces of clarity and serenity.”
We come around the “corner” of Stoney Pond, leaving the woods to walk along the water, approaching the campground. The music has softened considerably. People (three?) walk about with flashlights. Another goose honks, flying across the water.
The peepers are loud now. We walk to the shore. Abruptly, eerily, the peepers suddenly just stop. Silence. No music. No wind. No birds. No sound at all.
The sky is cloudy—cold front approaching. In the darkness, I look for a place to cross the watershed to the road by the campground. Eventually, I realize this will simply mean I have to get my feet wet. I go for what rocks I can see, none of them dry, but better than wading into rushing water over my ankles. I slosh through the mud on the other side, slipping at times. At least I’m wearing think wool socks.
A small fire and a Coleman lantern light the campsite, one now devoid of sound and visible people. My dog and I walk by, silently.
The night is warm. Peaceful. I used to get away to the mountains for a day at a time, and always found it gradually cleared my thinking. Why did I stop? Busy schedule, I guess—and since I moved to the country, I don’t feel the same need to “get away” that I did in the city, even in the well-wooded residential area. Maybe I should anyway. Dunno. Not that easy.
When I reach the car, I’m not done walking. I walk past along the road for a bit, intending to double back. As the road climbs, though, the character of the forest and the air changes, more dry, lighter but also “desolate” in a relative sense. I turn back and drive home.
Writer
Showing posts with label Stoney Pond. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stoney Pond. Show all posts
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Friday, January 4, 2008
Skis, Snowshoes and Snowmen
A few weeks ago, we finally got enough snow for cross-country skiing. I was elated—especially with a husky, this is my premiere recreational/exercise activity during the winter months. So I headed out to the ski trails behind Colgate—around three miles of trails through a beautiful, wooded area.
Laying a trail is a lot of work—slow, plodding, tiring, not a lot of fun. However, once done, I and others could enjoy it for weeks. Colgate even has a large sign at the entrance to the trails, politely asking people to walk and snowshoe to the side of the ski tracks, not in them. After all, these trails are as wide as roads, so missing the ski tracks isn’t hard. Further, skiers even try to promote this by making tracks along the side of the trail, leaving plenty of room.
Well, this didn’t take long. Day two, snowshoers had ventured up part of the trail, and yep, stomped out the ski tracks. This turns a stable, smooth ski path into a flat, then icy, uncontrollable, dangerous mess. Why? Snowshoeing is difficult work under any conditions—what’s the point of ruining the ski trails?
Day three, the hikers did their due. Now, certainly walking in the ski trail is easily than hoofing through snow—and it also makes post-holes all along the track, completely destroying it.
Day four, snowmobiles. Motorized vehicles aren’t allowed on these trails, but that doesn’t stop them. Even so, with a trail the size of a road, with one narrow ski track off to the side, you’d think a snowmobile could maneuver around this. Guess not.
And for all the considerate snowshoers and hikers and snowmobilers, it takes one asshole. And so next, when the weather warmed, and when it was impossible to cut new tracks, what would have been a nice set of tracks, nice and contained, resistant to melting temperatures for a while, was now an icy mess impossible to navigate in the deeper areas, and a wet, muddy mess in the shallow areas. Wonderful. Fuck you very much.
I went running along the canal instead, but this was also an icy mess. I could have ice-skated probably, as the ice was beautifully smooth, but I’ve fallen through ice once before and don’t wish to repeat the experience—I’d rather wait for a few days of very cold weather first.
Last week we got a Nor’easter, so I went to Stoney Pond to start over. No, it’s not immune to snowshoers or hikers (although generally safe from snowmobiles), not as many people go there during the holidays—except a few other skiers and their dogs. This works well—we reinforce each other’s tracks, and while dogs will run in the tracks, they don’t weigh as much and spread that weight over four feet. Even deer, although they make deeper holes, make small ones and curiously not that many, just here and there.
Day two—a few snowshoers and hikers, but not too much damage yet. Down by the lake, though, some people had built a snowman—nice job of it, too. Shanti (my husky) saw it ¼ mile away—and barked and barked and barked and barked. This was successful—that snowman stayed right where he was, making no sudden moves and coming no closer. We made a wide circle around it. Next day, no barking—but she sniffed that thing up and down, round and round, a through examination.
Writer
Laying a trail is a lot of work—slow, plodding, tiring, not a lot of fun. However, once done, I and others could enjoy it for weeks. Colgate even has a large sign at the entrance to the trails, politely asking people to walk and snowshoe to the side of the ski tracks, not in them. After all, these trails are as wide as roads, so missing the ski tracks isn’t hard. Further, skiers even try to promote this by making tracks along the side of the trail, leaving plenty of room.
Well, this didn’t take long. Day two, snowshoers had ventured up part of the trail, and yep, stomped out the ski tracks. This turns a stable, smooth ski path into a flat, then icy, uncontrollable, dangerous mess. Why? Snowshoeing is difficult work under any conditions—what’s the point of ruining the ski trails?
Day three, the hikers did their due. Now, certainly walking in the ski trail is easily than hoofing through snow—and it also makes post-holes all along the track, completely destroying it.
Day four, snowmobiles. Motorized vehicles aren’t allowed on these trails, but that doesn’t stop them. Even so, with a trail the size of a road, with one narrow ski track off to the side, you’d think a snowmobile could maneuver around this. Guess not.
And for all the considerate snowshoers and hikers and snowmobilers, it takes one asshole. And so next, when the weather warmed, and when it was impossible to cut new tracks, what would have been a nice set of tracks, nice and contained, resistant to melting temperatures for a while, was now an icy mess impossible to navigate in the deeper areas, and a wet, muddy mess in the shallow areas. Wonderful. Fuck you very much.
I went running along the canal instead, but this was also an icy mess. I could have ice-skated probably, as the ice was beautifully smooth, but I’ve fallen through ice once before and don’t wish to repeat the experience—I’d rather wait for a few days of very cold weather first.
Last week we got a Nor’easter, so I went to Stoney Pond to start over. No, it’s not immune to snowshoers or hikers (although generally safe from snowmobiles), not as many people go there during the holidays—except a few other skiers and their dogs. This works well—we reinforce each other’s tracks, and while dogs will run in the tracks, they don’t weigh as much and spread that weight over four feet. Even deer, although they make deeper holes, make small ones and curiously not that many, just here and there.
Day two—a few snowshoers and hikers, but not too much damage yet. Down by the lake, though, some people had built a snowman—nice job of it, too. Shanti (my husky) saw it ¼ mile away—and barked and barked and barked and barked. This was successful—that snowman stayed right where he was, making no sudden moves and coming no closer. We made a wide circle around it. Next day, no barking—but she sniffed that thing up and down, round and round, a through examination.
Writer
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Shanti and the Kayaks
I start with a stop at the corner store for something for dinner, vainly hoping for something in the produce line, settling for an onion, a pepper, and a bunch of celery. Pretty much their vegetable inventory. No fruit. I add a bunch of carrots for my neighbor’s horse. And a six-pack.
Two twenty-somethings walk in, chuckling. “Never seen a dog driving a car before,” they laugh. “Oh, that’s his,” the woman behind the counter notes, nodding toward me. “Always does that,” she adds, referring to my dog Shanti, a white husky mix, who moves to the driver’s seat and patiently scans the scene for my return with each stop.
On the way to the state land at Stoney Pond she whines. I’m exhausted, but she’s bored. While I’ve been working my bizarre schedule all day, home now only as dusk approaches, she’s been stretched out under evergreen trees, watching birds, barking at an early morning hot-air balloon flight, rested and ready to go.
The weather has turned cooler too. I love September—I used to always schedule my vacations somewhere in the middle of the month. I had little competition for the dates, and it’s a perfect time to backpack in the Adirondack High Peaks—not too hot (the cool weather an asset when climbing), few bugs, no summer crowds on the trails, lean-tos readily available, and only early bear hunting season to circumvent. But alas, since becoming a college professor in 1990, Septembers are spent frantically fielding all the fruckus administration and circumstances channel my way. Hence my fatigue. But the cool weather also energizes my dog even more than her light daily itinerary.
Further, a week or so back she somehow slightly injured her foot, limping for a few days. “Give her these antibiotics, three times a day,” the vet instructed. He knows my hectic schedule, and added, “If some days she only gets two, that’s fine. Just continue it for two weeks. Also, here’s some Rimadyl—twice a day.” My last dog, a shepherd mix, lived almost sixteen years, so I know Rimadyl well—a powerful non-steroidal, anti-inflammatory pain killer. I shook my head. Shanti already is a mountain of energy stuffed into 50 lbs. of fur. Now she’ll feel no pain.
We start our walk—it’s usually a run, but I can feel myself getting sick—pain in my chest, the first signs of the bronchitis that twice has taken me out for a week in the past few years. Emboldened by the lack of people relative to August, deer wander across the path, and Shanti takes off like a jet, slamming around in her harness when she abruptly reaches the end of her 26’ retractable leash. She looks at me, then spins around and tries it again. And again. And again. “Shanti!” I finally intervene, my lungs aching from the effort. Damn. I’m definitely getting sick. I later contemplate those leftover antibiotics—500 mg. Cephalex. Keflex, I know from my pharmacy tech days. Usually prescribed every six hours, but for 7-10 days. I can think of several reasons not to flirt with a short course. I eventually give in to temptation, spreading eight doses over three days, hoping my immune system and some rest can pick it up from there.
The deer now gone, Shanti turns to sticks. She’s not fond of “fetch,” but she love to jump for sticks. I hold them out at shoulder height, and she jumps two and a half times her height to grab them. She plays hard, and I remember to hold the stick lightly, or she’ll sharply wrench my wrist or elbow yet again. [Even other dogs don’t like to play with her, since she’s just too rough.] The stick game, though, eventually tires her, at least a bit.
We round the corner of the pond (a small lake, really) and find three kayaks full of loudly laughing, joking people. Shanti goes ballistic, lunging and lunging to run out and do just-what-exactly-I-can’t-even-begin-to-imagine. As much as I love these daily outings, I’m relived when we’re back at the car.
I haven’t been kayaking all summer—just too much work. I love doing it, and even take Shanti with me—she sits right in front, anxiously watching the geese, ducks and beavers. I did think about going, although transporting the kayak is now a challenge; I used to put my short kayak atop my Toyota Echo’s roof with some hard foam designed for the purpose and a complicated system to tie it with rope to the frame. My new Yaris, however, has an antenna right in the middle of the roof (by the hatchback). Perhaps I can get it in the back with the seats down. Wonder how far it would stick out. And where would Shanti sit?
Then again, there’s always my girl’s Taurus. And where she’ll sit. And whether it can handle two kayaks. And the irony of transportation for transportation.
I had my first kayak lesson twenty feet offshore at Stoney Pond, capsizing and swimming back to shore. I’m an excellent canoeist, capable of a speedy pace in any size canoe, capable of righting a canoe in the middle of a lake and getting back in (a skill I had to learn in Scouts). I accidentally impressed my coworkers years ago at a summer gathering when my shepherd mix took off after me when I borrowed a canoe. With motor boats racing about, she wasn’t safe in the water (she was an excellent swimmer—we used to swim long distances together), so I pulled a wet, 90 lb. dog into the canoe, keeping us level and above water. Kayaking was a little different.
Balance. Sit low and straight. Soon you can even race about the lake with a dog in your kayak with you. Balance. Something my work life and, apparently, health could use. Maybe I should kayak more often. Maybe I should spend more time under evergreens myself. Maybe Shanti should drive.
Writer
Two twenty-somethings walk in, chuckling. “Never seen a dog driving a car before,” they laugh. “Oh, that’s his,” the woman behind the counter notes, nodding toward me. “Always does that,” she adds, referring to my dog Shanti, a white husky mix, who moves to the driver’s seat and patiently scans the scene for my return with each stop.
On the way to the state land at Stoney Pond she whines. I’m exhausted, but she’s bored. While I’ve been working my bizarre schedule all day, home now only as dusk approaches, she’s been stretched out under evergreen trees, watching birds, barking at an early morning hot-air balloon flight, rested and ready to go.
The weather has turned cooler too. I love September—I used to always schedule my vacations somewhere in the middle of the month. I had little competition for the dates, and it’s a perfect time to backpack in the Adirondack High Peaks—not too hot (the cool weather an asset when climbing), few bugs, no summer crowds on the trails, lean-tos readily available, and only early bear hunting season to circumvent. But alas, since becoming a college professor in 1990, Septembers are spent frantically fielding all the fruckus administration and circumstances channel my way. Hence my fatigue. But the cool weather also energizes my dog even more than her light daily itinerary.
Further, a week or so back she somehow slightly injured her foot, limping for a few days. “Give her these antibiotics, three times a day,” the vet instructed. He knows my hectic schedule, and added, “If some days she only gets two, that’s fine. Just continue it for two weeks. Also, here’s some Rimadyl—twice a day.” My last dog, a shepherd mix, lived almost sixteen years, so I know Rimadyl well—a powerful non-steroidal, anti-inflammatory pain killer. I shook my head. Shanti already is a mountain of energy stuffed into 50 lbs. of fur. Now she’ll feel no pain.
We start our walk—it’s usually a run, but I can feel myself getting sick—pain in my chest, the first signs of the bronchitis that twice has taken me out for a week in the past few years. Emboldened by the lack of people relative to August, deer wander across the path, and Shanti takes off like a jet, slamming around in her harness when she abruptly reaches the end of her 26’ retractable leash. She looks at me, then spins around and tries it again. And again. And again. “Shanti!” I finally intervene, my lungs aching from the effort. Damn. I’m definitely getting sick. I later contemplate those leftover antibiotics—500 mg. Cephalex. Keflex, I know from my pharmacy tech days. Usually prescribed every six hours, but for 7-10 days. I can think of several reasons not to flirt with a short course. I eventually give in to temptation, spreading eight doses over three days, hoping my immune system and some rest can pick it up from there.
The deer now gone, Shanti turns to sticks. She’s not fond of “fetch,” but she love to jump for sticks. I hold them out at shoulder height, and she jumps two and a half times her height to grab them. She plays hard, and I remember to hold the stick lightly, or she’ll sharply wrench my wrist or elbow yet again. [Even other dogs don’t like to play with her, since she’s just too rough.] The stick game, though, eventually tires her, at least a bit.
We round the corner of the pond (a small lake, really) and find three kayaks full of loudly laughing, joking people. Shanti goes ballistic, lunging and lunging to run out and do just-what-exactly-I-can’t-even-begin-to-imagine. As much as I love these daily outings, I’m relived when we’re back at the car.
I haven’t been kayaking all summer—just too much work. I love doing it, and even take Shanti with me—she sits right in front, anxiously watching the geese, ducks and beavers. I did think about going, although transporting the kayak is now a challenge; I used to put my short kayak atop my Toyota Echo’s roof with some hard foam designed for the purpose and a complicated system to tie it with rope to the frame. My new Yaris, however, has an antenna right in the middle of the roof (by the hatchback). Perhaps I can get it in the back with the seats down. Wonder how far it would stick out. And where would Shanti sit?
Then again, there’s always my girl’s Taurus. And where she’ll sit. And whether it can handle two kayaks. And the irony of transportation for transportation.
I had my first kayak lesson twenty feet offshore at Stoney Pond, capsizing and swimming back to shore. I’m an excellent canoeist, capable of a speedy pace in any size canoe, capable of righting a canoe in the middle of a lake and getting back in (a skill I had to learn in Scouts). I accidentally impressed my coworkers years ago at a summer gathering when my shepherd mix took off after me when I borrowed a canoe. With motor boats racing about, she wasn’t safe in the water (she was an excellent swimmer—we used to swim long distances together), so I pulled a wet, 90 lb. dog into the canoe, keeping us level and above water. Kayaking was a little different.
Balance. Sit low and straight. Soon you can even race about the lake with a dog in your kayak with you. Balance. Something my work life and, apparently, health could use. Maybe I should kayak more often. Maybe I should spend more time under evergreens myself. Maybe Shanti should drive.
Writer
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
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
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
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