Part II: Day 53: Good Bad Dog!

Yesterday at lunchtime I was working on a scene from the novel when my character arrives in France only to discover that a thief has made off with her wallet.  It's one of the few truly autobiographical elements of the story--that is, this happened to me once.  It was just this week that I decided to give my character that same crappy experience so that she could know firsthand what it's like to be in Europe as a middle-aged non-student with No Money At All.  I never figured out who got my wallet and how, and neither does my character, but she has her theories.  The bad guys win, just this one time, but her inner resources get a good workout.

Things were tense there in the train station in Toulouse.  My character had been up all night on the flight getting there, and she was hungry.  It was lunchtime here, but I wasn't thinking about the here and now.  But then my husband opened the door to my studio and called to me from the stairs: "Didn't you hear me yelling out there?"

I hadn't heard a thing.  I'd been very far away listening to an imaginary person's stomach grumbling.

"Zoe almost ate a baby groundhog.  She came very close to catching it.  I kept yelling at her and yelling at her, and she was ignoring me.  She chased it to its little lodge in all the sticks, and had her head right inside, but then she finally stopped."

In the old days, if Zoe was in bad dog killer mode, she wouldn't have stopped.  We've seen her eat live bunnies.  We saw her get scratched up by a little badger when she stuck her snout deep into its hole.

I was so sorry to have missed this.  The camera sat on my desk, unused for a couple days now.  No groundhogs were photographed on my watch.  The picture you see here below of a groundhog and its baby looks exactly like what we see in our yard every morning, but it was taken by someone else:

http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://i39.photobucket.com/albums/e172/PATMAN68/Groundhogs1.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.turtletimes.com/forums/topic/68144-baby-groundhog-pics/&h=683&w=1023&sz=166&tbnid=SFCv57bYIKRwyM:&tbnh=86&tbnw=129&zoom=1&usg=__iirE3b2sAD45RRJWnpED345fWEU=&docid=ogZx3Q-pDUfQNM&sa=X&ei=vnnST9mvIamS0QGSn7W1Aw&ved=0CFsQ9QEwCA&dur=183

I used to be so upset when Zoe did things like this, but instead I patted her--she was panting now after the exertion and looking pleased with herself--and said, "That's my girl!"

Later I gave her the Chinese herbs Emily and Don have prescribed to her, in capsule form.  I wrapped them in cream cheese and got all six of them down that way.  I've started giving her these alternative medicines again this week, in this way.  She only eats canned food now, as I mentioned in an earlier post.  She's like the daughter of vegans who gets fed up and goes on a hunger strike until they bring her home some burgers and fries.  After I gave her these capsules, I sat beside her eating my lunch.  Today it was quasi-hippie/farmer fare: an organic salad with arugula and quinoa and chick peas and goat cheese feta and an all-beef hotdog (the beef from a local farm) and Zoe got very interested in my plate.  She sat and begged for some hot dog bites.  She was so insistent at one point that she grunted, then flashed me a winning smile.

All of this, of course, is extremely bad doggy etiquette.  I remember when I first gave her tidbits at an outdoor party when she was a puppy.  Before that, it hadn't occurred to her that my food could be hers.   Another guest at the party who was an old hand with dogs warned me that Zoe would never not want my food after this.  Because of my slip, because I liked having my cute little puppy licking my fingers, forever after, my friend predicted, she would always be a nuisance at dinner parties setting her head in peoples' laps, not all of whom would be as dogcentric as we are.  I did it anyway.  And I have to tell you that my guests have always said one thing about Zoe's begging: she's polite about it.  She does it demurely, quietly, and isn't insistent.  But of course these are people who are sitting at our table being wined and dined.  What else are they going to say?

But now, Zoe doesn't beg like she used to.  When we bring our dinner out to the deck, instead of straining on her tie-out to come up and join us and get in on the action, she sometimes prefers to nap.

So now, when Zoe reverts back to her wolfy ways and stalks a critter, or reverts back to her spoiled-humanized-center-of-the-universe-replacement-for-children ways and asks for me to share what I'm eating with gusto, I am very happy.  Her hunger for meat, living or otherwise, is a hunger for life.  Bon appetit, Zoe.  Bon appetit!

Part II: Day 36: Mr. Husband, We're Ready for Our Close-Up

At this time of year, those first two weeks of May, the colors change visibly every single day.  One day the lilacs are budding, the next day the trees are ablaze.  In the woods are the last of the trillium.  Maybe if we walk through them every other day we can make them last?

This time I handed the camera over to the husband so that I could be in some of the pictures.

She knows where we're going, but there's still much to see

Entrance to the Woods

How rare it is for us to be pointed in the same direction, with trillium around us

Which is why we took dozens of these, but you won't have to see them all, gentle reader, I promise.  This one is posted here because Zoe has a nice smile, and my eyes are open for a change.

One of us said, "Where's mommy?" which is why she is looking my way and not towards our photographer

Talk to the hand

How was that treat, really?

Peace

Mirth

A private joke--Zoe looks likes she's laughing here

One last picture (or twelve), and then you can swim, Zoe!

I'd like a Slurpee about now.

Testing the temperature

Hope you don't object to black slime paw prints

Thank you, she says.

After a walk like this through the splendor of May wildflower season, I want to go back in time and do it all again.  In these posts, I do.

Namaste, gentle reader.  I hope all kinds of flowers are blooming, wherever you are.

Part II, Day 33: Clouds. Sun. Rain.

photo by Alex Epstein

Chapter One: Clouds.

Rain showers arrive, and at the end of a warm day the steam brings out black fly nymphs.  Sonya and Alex and Zoe and I are walking through the woods covered head to toe with latex, bug dope, and in one instance, black fur.  Spirits are high today.  The two seniors just finished their last courses.  One just got a second job offer through Americorps, and the other has interviews in the works.  The destination: Boston.  The older human just finished Part I of her novel.  A celebration is in order.

photo by Alex Epstein

 

Alex and Sonya and Zoe

We have much to discuss: grassroots environmental movements in the North Country; the new tradition of bringing celebratory drinks to some courses populated mostly by seniors; the wildflowers around us, especially the trillium; Jeffrey Eugenides's The Marriage Plot, the duo's upcoming travels to France and Italy, and Zoe's place in their heart as the not-a-dog person's dog to love.  They both have excellent dog instincts and know--Alex especially--how to operate three moves ahead, as in a game of chess, to anticipate danger, as when we leave the woods and get close to a road, or when other dogs show up that might not play well with others.  I see a dog in this couple's future, especially when they ask me, in detail, how much time housebreaking a puppy takes.

But not this summer.  This summer is going to be about travel, city life, and work.  

Zoe and I will miss them.

 
Chapter two: Sun

photo by Kelly Prime

The first really hot day in over a week and Zoe just wants to swim and stroll in a mellow way in the shade.  She hasn't seen K. for over two years but she recognizes her instantly when we pick her up at the bookstore.  She extends her snout as far as it will go to cover K's cheek with kisses--something she never does with me, or with the not-a-dog persons she has won over in time.  Today, though, there's something about the sun and the mood in the air that makes her exult in inter-species love and affection.  I think it's the company of K.  Like me, K. would live in a pen with eight dogs walking all over her if she could.

The question of the day: can a neuroscience major become a writer?  The answer, to quote Elizabeth Gilbert: Is the bean green?  Does James Brown get down?  This is a gal who keeps a lyrical, imagery-rich blog about her travels and food passions; a gal who dances, plays music, writes, makes art; all on top of being a gifted science major who has worked as a lab tutor all year.  We talk about how everything we do in life can be fodder for writing, even working at the Stewart's Shop in her town, which is part of the summer plan (great chances for conversation with customers, and people-watching, we agree) and the nature conservancy where she is a guide for kids.

I try to imagine what it would be like to be good at more than one or two things at once.  My sister is like that.  My friend, Sandra, in Paris is like that. 

We both agree that if we could do anything outside of our repertoire, we'd be singer-songwriters.  I'd be the new Joni Mitchell and . . . I am not sure what she would write or who she would be.  We'll have to walk again soon, so I can find out. 

Chapter Three: Rain

photo by Olivia Arroyo

Today an athlete from L.A., O., is enjoying her last full day in the North Country.  She has one last paper to turn in and then she's off for a summer of long, intense days of training (her tennis coach has already told her that the workouts begin on Monday).  She's also taking driving lessons, and she'll hunt for whatever part-time job she can find, preferably in a bookstore or library.

O. and Zoe are good friends

O. was only seventeen when she showed up in my nonfiction writing class this fall.  Many of the students were graduating seniors.  She wowed them with memoirs about her eccentric L.A. neighbors, her youthful forays into writing fantasy and young adult fiction, and her father's adventures in his native Costa Rica on the road with a flatulent pig.

For much of the fall, she would come to visit me in my office on the one day of the week when Zoe came with me, and we would talk about writing, then walk with Zoe and talk about everything else under the sun.

I only brought Zoe to campus for about 90 minutes a week, but on those days, there would be a line of students waiting to come to the office.  For a shy dog, Zoe enjoyed holding court, but her editorial advice was unreliable.  The manuscripts students handed in only interested her if the students had just come from the dining hall, and it's not easy to make an essay radiant with lyricism and original thought while also redolent of meat.

Lunch dates are fun, but I've never been a big one for going out for coffee.  Maybe because when I drink coffee or tea, I'm usually sitting behind this computer.  For me, conversation flows best when there's something to marvel at that is happening right in front of us.  Clouds shaped like brains floating overhead.  Trillium blooming. A three-legged dog swimming--something her surgeon last summer said she would probably not do again.  A three-legged dog reminding us that even when we make plans, all we ever have is now.

Part II, Day 32: Which Way Do We Go?

I've been trying to get back to see the trillium since our two-hour walk on Sunday, but on two consecutive walks this week, Zoe said no.

She likes the woods and the trillium just fine; what she took strenuous objection to was the route we had to take to get there.  When Zoe puts her foot down, when she does her "hell no, we won't go," she becomes very heavy and immobile.  I could, if I chose, put her back on the lead and try to tug her toward my destination, but what would be the joy in that?  These walks are for her.  I am her person, and I am there to serve.  If I had to force the matter and exert my will, it wouldn't be any fun.

What's fun is to figure out what she wants, what she doesn't want, and why.

Take Tuesday, for example.  On Tuesday she objected to puberty.  En masse.  We had crossed the path and were on the island, and were about to cross the second bridge.  But then, just up ahead, a group of about 30 kids, mostly boys in middle school, gathered in a clump to admire this cute three-legged dog making her way into their world.

I heard them before I saw them, but I saw her before I heard them.  She sat down and said, hell no.

Mind you, this is a shy dog.  She doesn't go to parties.  She prefers the one-on-one, or a group of three, maybe four.  It's difficult to go into depth on philosophical matters when there are ten, twenty, or maybe thirty boys, age 12-13, who all want to pat her on the head and say, "hi dog, hi hi hi!"

What I loved about this crossroads was the child leader who came forth.  A boy with a buzz cut who had clearly done time in the canine community said, "Guys, you're scaring this dog.  Let me go forward first.  Alone."  He told his minions to shush, and then he presented himself to our girl.  He was indisputably the alpha boy and no one doubted his authority, least of all, me.

The problem was that he did not have eyes in back of his head.  He didn't know, because he was too busy looking sweetly at Zoe and asking her in all the right ways if she wanted to sit and be patted, that the gang had not in the least bit thinned out, and so it looked to Zoe like the boy was luring her there with my help so that she could then be high-fived by about sixty growing hands--all at the same time.

Zoe was on the bridge a foot away from Alpha Boy, seriously considering his proposal, but then she decided against it, and that was that.  She turned around and walked away.

"What's her name?  If I call her, will she come?" the boy asked me.  What he really wanted to know was if this dog had been trained at all.

"I think she's just decided that this is too large a group to meet," I said, as Zoe's reverse walk turned into a run.  Before I finished the sentence she had whizzed over the bridge and was halfway down the first leg of our path.

But then I saw what all my weeks and months of training had accomplished.  She turned and looked behind several times to make sure I was watching.  She made sure we made eye contact every time she turned her head.  And then she made sure I could see that she was waiting for me in a quiet, discreet spot closer to the river, away from the throngs.

The smallest boy in this group, the least alpha one of the pack, stopped to yell to me, "Your dog is sweet.  She's the nicest dog I've ever seen."  

I wanted to thank him, but I was hurrying away, trying to catch up to my dog.

On Wednesday her objective to the path was purely aesthetic.

We were at the same point where things broke down on Tuesday, on the second bridge, and we heard loud music.  I hope she isn't starting to think that whenever we cross this bridge now, she'll be bombarded with sensations.  Middle school boys, loud music: after a while it's the same kind of too- muchness.

There was a band playing on campus.  The music sailing across the river to us was "Y.M.C.A."

Zoe looked at me and said, "Seriously?"  She sat down.

I wanted to explain the seventies to her.  I wanted to tell her about dance parties, gay rights, and how this fun, upbeat song by the Village People is the gay anthem.  But that it's also a song played at major sports events. I just read, for example, that it made the Guinness Book of Records in 2009 when 44,000 people sang the song at the Sun Bowl in Texas.  I wanted her to know that in a certain frame of mind, if you want to dance, and you know some fun arm moves, it's a great song for fostering unity, better even than the Hokey Pokey.  Better than a conga line or the macarena.  I wanted her to realize she was dismissing number 7 on VH1's list of the 100 Greatest Dance Songs of the 20th Century.
 
But I knew not to argue with her.  She had that certain determined head tilt.  Crossing the bridge was out of the question.  We killed some time at the island, where we wandered along the river's edge, chased sticks, and then followed the undergrowth to the edge and watched a German shepherd on the other side of the bridge charge toward the live music without hesitation.

"One can't argue with taste," Zoe finally said.

When I brought home this puppy nine years ago, the prevailing opinion, from all the sources I read and the classes Zoe and I attended, was that I had to be the firm pack leader.  That Zoe would be more content and feel more secure if she knew that I was alpha, that it was my way or the highway.

That isn't the relationship we established.  I'm alpha when it comes to big things, like, she can't play in traffic.  She acquiesces so sweetly to so many things we never bargained for: going to veterinarians once a month or more, submitting to blood tests, x-rays, intravenous treatments of drugs I never knew the names of before this September, acupuncture needles, herbs and vitamins and endless pills, all kinds of poking and prodding, and then the spectacle of me, her person, coming to her every night when she's settling into bed and telling her how great she is, how she is brave and good and resilient and strong, when she really just wants to sleep and dream about chasing rabbits and eating a maggoty old squirrel.

But one of the things I love about Zoe is her confidence in her own opinions.  While I dither about what to do in so many ways, especially on the page--should character X go here?  will character Y sleep with character Z?  am i over-doing it on the back story?  should i move this scene over there?--she knows where she wants to play, and why.  And when I worry about how to ask for things I need, and how to give my dog the things she needs most, she always knows where to go.  This way, her nose shows me.  She points, in her regal way, and the direction is clear.  That way.  No, not there.  Are you kidding me?  What, are you kidding me?

I think we're going to have to drive to the entrance to these woods if I want to walk through them again before the last of the trillium die

Part II: Day 30: Wild Life

Today I heard Zoe barking in a way I hadn't heard before.  It wasn't the bark that said a cat is in the vicinity.  It wasn't the bark that said people and dogs are romping across the river without my permission.  It wasn't the bark that said the UPS guy is here again.  It wasn't the bark that said a friend has come to visit the humans.  It wasn't the bark that said the pizza is here.

This was something frantic, and insistent.

When I went outside I saw that a porcupine had deigned to cross her path and climb the maple just a few feet away from the end of her line.

It moved slowly, like it had just woken up from a six-month nap.

We watched it for a long time.  I got as close as I felt comfortable, and I have to say, even though porcupines are the enemies of dog-lovers, this guy was kind of cute.

From a slight distance, those quills looked like fur you could pet.

Zoe begged to differ.  The closer I got to the porcupine, the more she leapt into the air and said no.  It must be a total drag for a dog when its person gets quilled.  And where can a dog take its person for help on a Sunday afternoon?

Eventually the porcupine got tired of being yelled at and he climbed back down.

"Wow, he's a tripod too," my husband said.

This was unbelievable.  The three-legged dog and a three-legged porcupine crossing paths.

For a moment the two tripods were staring each other down.  Then we realized that the porcupine was simply holding one of its front legs aloft.  Perhaps it had been injured before it sought refuge, mistakenly, in our back yard.

We watched it slowly limp away into the brush in the back yard.

Now we'll have to be careful about letting Zoe off the lead, even at home.  There's wildlife afoot.

A few hours later, Zoe and I squared off with a garter snake.

It's exciting out here when the wild world wakes up just outside my window.

That shadow is Zoe's head watching the snake slink away

Part II, Day 25: Zoe and Friends in Vermont, a Genre-Bending Thriller

Maybe it all started with the toy helicopter.  My husband, a child at heart when it comes to gadgets, and a secret reader of thrillers, startled us one night with the sound.

What was it?

We were in the living room thinking about nothing much at all and suddenly we heard the blades, the sound not of a rescue operation, as we three witnessed once happening in the South of France, but of an army of flies invading our North Country home.

Gold star if you can find the helicopter in this picture

The next day we were packing up, Zoe and I, seeking adventure in the neighboring state of Vermont.

First, as I posted about yesterday, she assisted in minor surgery at the vet's office.  That the patient was herself was no obstacle for her.

Later, we piled into the dog-mobile with our friends Milo, the speed racer, sometimes known as Roller Dog, and Emily, who is Queen Alpha of all Curly Golden-haired Dogs of the Universe.

Zoe and Emily tried to help drive, but their services were not needed.  Glenn had matters firmly in hand.

On the walk, Zoe offered to race Milo, but Roller Dog was not interested in competing.  He follows to the beat of his own drum.  It's the the heartbeat of his human companion, and that person has treats.

Cold was coming, and Zoe said, Bring it on.

There's something about the two of us that seems to attract winter, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

Back at the house, Zoe and Tad squared off.  The cat refused to cower and refused to climb down from his perch.  He stared Zoe down and told her not to get any closer.  The stand-off was recorded on film, but only the two characters can tell you what genre their story could be categorized as: domestic comedy, or Western.

We woke the next morning to snow.  Zoe was delighted.

Emily and Milo wondered if they were in a remake of that movie, Groundhog Day.  This was exactly how it went the last time we came to Vermont to visit.  They have visitors from the West, and it snows.  Why?

(For details of that story, the prequel to today's events, go to Thanksgiving in Spring, here.)

Off we went with James, and Zoe and I watched the tender way James lifted the Roller Derby star from the car.  He and Glenn make it all look so easy.

Milo was deprived of one of his two favorite morning games because of all the clouds.  This dog likes to chase sunlight.  He finds a watchband glinting, or sunbeams having a parade, and he follows them and barks.

His second favorite activity is to roll in smooth moss.  It was coated in snow today, but he didn't care.

Zoe has three legs, but she doesn't defer to her only other three-legged associate.  When she saw her chance, she leapt first into the poochmobile and claimed the best four-wheel real estate for herself.

When Milo asked why, she said Ours is not to reason why.

But then the three dogs rode happily back to the house where the cat was hiding in wait.

Zoe and Emily, two top dogs, attempt to commandeer the steering wheel

Zoe is considering the script for Riding in Cars With Boys (and Girls)

Have you ever seen a cuter Golden face?

Glenn helps Milo down.

Milo, Speed Racer, a.k.a Roller Dog, is almost ready, and Coach Emily looks on

Is that really snow?

Don't worry, Emily.  You'll always be Top Girl.

Milo and Zoe agree to the terms of the race.

Glenn and Emily, Milo and Zoe

Whoops, where'd they go?

Milo would rather keep the humans company today

Make me!

This is the closest Zoe has ever gotten to a cat

Zoe shows off her tripod sit formation

With no sunbeams to chase, Milo proceeds to roll in moss

Without the fourth leg as momentum, it took him a while to get up, but he did

Zoe doesn't understand why the others aren't grinning as the snow goes horizontal

First in the prime seat--ha!

Are you talking to me?