I had stapled together a ream of pages holding directions to book stores. The directions told me where to exit main roads, where to turn, and how many minutes it would take. Mapquest even told me how much fuel I'd burn. But Mapquest couldn't know that the book store would be in a grim part of town.
I wouldn't have thought that this small town would even have bad neighborhoods. I found a parking spot shaded by trees so the dogs wouldn't get too hot, and started walking. I passed rundown apartments, a clinic where dirty needles could be exchanged for clean, and buildings that housed helping agencies. People I passed on the street were friendly and said hello, but some had empty expressions and sung to themselves.
I walked past the book store the first time; it had only a small sign and dark windows. But when I went inside, shelves and shelves of books gave the place a fairly nice atmosphere.
I approached a man sitting at a computer. He didn't look up, so I politely waited for him to finish what he was doing. After a couple of minutes, he still didn't look up.
“Hi,” I said, finally, and explained I was there to tell him about a book. I held up the book and waited. He gazed at me without blinking. Eyes have to blink, right? They're constructed to blink. But like a garden frog, the man continued to stare—no expression, no blinks.
I had a fistful of book marks, and asked if he'd like me to leave some. He finally spoke. “I don't care what you do,” he said in a sepulchral voice.
Back at the car, I studied directions that led to the next book store. I thought about just getting back on the road; I'd lost my enthusiasm for stores. But, with a sigh, I drove to the next place.
The store sat on a rise and looked like the witch's house in Hansel and Gretel. It had a scalloped roof and the siding looked edible. The store announced its name in five different colors, and posters lined the windows. When I walked in, the smell of fresh coffee (fair trade) overpowered me. The manager had the day off, but the bubbly clerk stroked the dog on the book's cover and gushed that she was glad I'd come.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Banks-The Spoilers
It isn't enough that banks have ruined things for many people. Now, a bank has ruined a dachshund named Homer, at least as far as traveling goes.
Dianne, traveling and tent camping with her 12-year-old grandson, Cory, said Homer used to be the quietest of travelers. He would get in the car, curl up on the seat, and go to sleep. Then Dianne started taking Homer along on visits to the bank. Tellers at the drive-in window handed out treats, and Homer grew used to it.
Now when they travel, Homer stands, front feet on the car window, keeping watch for a bank. Though Dianne is driving a route empty of civilization, Homer keeps vigil. He hopes for a bank amid vast desert and towering rocks, and believes that when he spots it, a delicious treat will await him.
“It's not fun to take him anymore,” Cory said. “We just wished he'd relax.”
Dianne, traveling and tent camping with her 12-year-old grandson, Cory, said Homer used to be the quietest of travelers. He would get in the car, curl up on the seat, and go to sleep. Then Dianne started taking Homer along on visits to the bank. Tellers at the drive-in window handed out treats, and Homer grew used to it.
Now when they travel, Homer stands, front feet on the car window, keeping watch for a bank. Though Dianne is driving a route empty of civilization, Homer keeps vigil. He hopes for a bank amid vast desert and towering rocks, and believes that when he spots it, a delicious treat will await him.
“It's not fun to take him anymore,” Cory said. “We just wished he'd relax.”
Practicing
Sailor, a six-month old Border collie, practices his herding skills on Baby Isla. He has her right where he wants her.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Odds and Ends
Twilight comes to the campground, and the changing light deepens the red in surrounding rocks, and turns tan rocks golden.
Four grannies, who are from an RV parked at the end of the tent row, strut the periphery of the campground, pulled forward by chihuahuas. The four dogs run their legs in a blur, aiming to stay ahead of the women. Two bosomy grannies walk on the outside, waving and smiling at people sitting at picnic tables.
“Nice evening,” a granny calls, and “Hello, how are you?” I suspect the women would like folks to notice their dogs.
“Cute dogs,” I say as the parade passes.
“This one, he's a mess,” one granny replies, and bends over to touch the dog.
Another granny points to her dog. “I've had her 11 years.”
Another says of her dog, “He's having the time of his life.”
“I can see that.”
Later, the temperature is ideal for sleeping. My dogs have crashed, tired from a long walk on the desert, but I don't sleep because of incessant yapping. I wonder if it's the chihuahua whose owner admits he's a mess. Or maybe the crew of chihuahuas takes turns, to make sure it's never quiet. Why don't the grannies notice the yapping? Too many pina coladas? Or did they turn their hearing aids off at bedtime?
A nice-looking middle-aged couple stops at the table where I am sitting in a book store. The man picks up a book and studies the handsome Border collie on the cover.
“I suppose I should buy this for my wife. She likes our dog better than me.”
The woman smiles.
“She believes the dog is superior,” the man says while I'm signing a book for his wife.
I suggest, “There's probably something you do better than the dog.”
“Of course! I'm a better conversationalist.”
The couple walks off. The woman turns around and behind the man's back mouths the words, "He's really not.”
Four grannies, who are from an RV parked at the end of the tent row, strut the periphery of the campground, pulled forward by chihuahuas. The four dogs run their legs in a blur, aiming to stay ahead of the women. Two bosomy grannies walk on the outside, waving and smiling at people sitting at picnic tables.
“Nice evening,” a granny calls, and “Hello, how are you?” I suspect the women would like folks to notice their dogs.
“Cute dogs,” I say as the parade passes.
“This one, he's a mess,” one granny replies, and bends over to touch the dog.
Another granny points to her dog. “I've had her 11 years.”
Another says of her dog, “He's having the time of his life.”
“I can see that.”
Later, the temperature is ideal for sleeping. My dogs have crashed, tired from a long walk on the desert, but I don't sleep because of incessant yapping. I wonder if it's the chihuahua whose owner admits he's a mess. Or maybe the crew of chihuahuas takes turns, to make sure it's never quiet. Why don't the grannies notice the yapping? Too many pina coladas? Or did they turn their hearing aids off at bedtime?
A nice-looking middle-aged couple stops at the table where I am sitting in a book store. The man picks up a book and studies the handsome Border collie on the cover.
“I suppose I should buy this for my wife. She likes our dog better than me.”
The woman smiles.
“She believes the dog is superior,” the man says while I'm signing a book for his wife.
I suggest, “There's probably something you do better than the dog.”
“Of course! I'm a better conversationalist.”
The couple walks off. The woman turns around and behind the man's back mouths the words, "He's really not.”
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Trees and Rocks and Doggies
At a rest stop in Utah, two people in a car pull up next to me in the parking lot. They are an old woman and a man about 40. They both have coal black hair, and I think they are mother and son.
The man helps the woman out of the car gingerly. The woman wears a loose dress and clunky shoes with no socks, the man has on a polo shirt, and pants worn thin from many washings, but I believe the pair have dressed up for their outing.
The man takes the old woman by the elbow and the two of them inch toward the picnic area. The woman's arms and hands shake.
I wonder what kind of trip this pair has undertaken. Heading to or returning from a hospital? Going on one last road trip together?
The woman shuffles to a thick-trunked tree and stops. She extends her arms around the trunk, rests her head against the bark, and hugs the tree. Her shoulders begin to shake. The man wraps an arm around her waist and puts his head on the old woman's neck.
I leave, and when I come back from the bathroom, the man has left to visit the men's room. The woman, with trembling hands and great difficulty, is collecting rocks. She holds three medium-sized ones. Painfully, she bends over to get a fourth.
She smiles at me and says of the rocks, “Pretty.” She has a faint foreign accent.
My dogs stand at attention in the cargo area of my hatchback car, waiting to get out. I pour water into a dish for them, and hold it while they drink.
“Nice puppies,” the woman says. “Good doggies.”
“They are,” I agree.
She grins, watching them slurp. “Always be kind to doggies. We must treat them as children, be good to them.”
I don't know if she means this as advice or observation. “Yes,” I agree.
The man returns, nods at me, and places the rocks in the back seat. He helps the old woman inch to the rest room. When they return, he eases her into the car, and they drive away.
Maybe as our journey draws to a close, we get clarity about what we will miss most. A good son. A wise old tree in full foliage. Beautiful rocks. And wagging doggies, lapping at a dish of water.
The man helps the woman out of the car gingerly. The woman wears a loose dress and clunky shoes with no socks, the man has on a polo shirt, and pants worn thin from many washings, but I believe the pair have dressed up for their outing.
The man takes the old woman by the elbow and the two of them inch toward the picnic area. The woman's arms and hands shake.
I wonder what kind of trip this pair has undertaken. Heading to or returning from a hospital? Going on one last road trip together?
The woman shuffles to a thick-trunked tree and stops. She extends her arms around the trunk, rests her head against the bark, and hugs the tree. Her shoulders begin to shake. The man wraps an arm around her waist and puts his head on the old woman's neck.
I leave, and when I come back from the bathroom, the man has left to visit the men's room. The woman, with trembling hands and great difficulty, is collecting rocks. She holds three medium-sized ones. Painfully, she bends over to get a fourth.
She smiles at me and says of the rocks, “Pretty.” She has a faint foreign accent.
My dogs stand at attention in the cargo area of my hatchback car, waiting to get out. I pour water into a dish for them, and hold it while they drink.
“Nice puppies,” the woman says. “Good doggies.”
“They are,” I agree.
She grins, watching them slurp. “Always be kind to doggies. We must treat them as children, be good to them.”
I don't know if she means this as advice or observation. “Yes,” I agree.
The man returns, nods at me, and places the rocks in the back seat. He helps the old woman inch to the rest room. When they return, he eases her into the car, and they drive away.
Maybe as our journey draws to a close, we get clarity about what we will miss most. A good son. A wise old tree in full foliage. Beautiful rocks. And wagging doggies, lapping at a dish of water.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
The One Left Behind
I checked the car. Ground cloth, tent, road atlas, dog food, peanut butter, tortillas, water. Mick, my Border collie, and Shakespeare, my German shepherd/Malamute waited, ears perked, ready to jump into my red Vibe. I had everything except Mimi, my elderly white and black Border collie.
Four years ago when I went to Alaska, I took all three dogs, and spent a month traveling. At night, I tied the dogs near the tent, far enough apart that they couldn't get entangled. In the daytime, the four of us explored paths through deep woods, walked around lakes, and up mountainsides. I leashed the dogs if other people or dogs were near, but we had most places to ourselves. Mimi stayed close, velcroed to my jeans.
Mimi joined our family 14 years ago, a birthday present for my daughter, Mary. At the time, we had another Border collie, Duncan, the subject of the recently published memoir. Duncan wanted no help in handling his flock of sheep. A couple of times, Mary and I let Mimi try her paw at herding, and she had speed and talent, but she preferred crawling onto a person's lap and resting her nose against their ear. In the snuggling department, Mimi had no peer.
I inherited Mimi when Mary left home. Besides Duncan, I had a flock guardian, Gracie, a Great Pyrenees. Mimi had no unique role back then. But in the last several years, she has won a distinction for herself; she became the dog who stuck closest to me on outings. I walk my dogs on public land, and Shakespeare sometimes found disgusting stuff to roll in, and refused to come when called. Mick stayed with me on Idaho walks, but in Alaska he discovered squirrels, and with Border collie intensity, blocked out my cries for him to return. On a couple of occasions, I thought a bear had gotten him because he went missing for so long. Finally I spied him, rigid as a post, gaze locked on a squirrel in a tree, too absorbed to see me sitting on a nearby log, weeping.
Last spring, I found Mimi in a mud puddle, eyes rolled back in her head, limbs rigid. I carried her into the house. Her spinning eyes gave her a demonic look, but she remained sweet and trusting as I checked her over. I Googled her symptoms, and the information said she'd had a stroke. Expensive tests were available, but the recommended treatment was wait and see. If she got better in four days, she could survive.
I asked her to live so we could have summer walks together. Spring rains had made our walking spot beautiful. For two days I carried her in and out of the house, but on the third day, she managed a porch stair. Each day she improved. On our walks, she sometimes got confused about where she was, and one time, raced off in the wrong direction, intent on finding us. Despite her age, we couldn't catch up to her because she had a head start. She'd stop and listen to my whistle, then dash off again. She managed to find the car, and that's where the other two other dogs and I caught up to her.
In fall, I intended to dig a grave in the back field in case she didn't survive winter, but the ground froze before I got around to it. Fortunately, Mimi made it through.
This spring when I walked the dogs in the field behind my house, Mimi had to be on a leash because she became easily confused and couldn't see me and the other dogs. Still, at feeding time, she could dance on her hind legs when the food dish appeared.
On a walk in early June, for the first time Mimi became too tired to continue. I tried carrying her, but that lasted only a minute. She liked the attempt, though, because it resembled snuggling.
Riding in the car has become too uncomfortable for her, so during my trip Mimi will stay at my friend Debbie’s ranch. Debbie, the kindest of people, has many dogs, cats, cows, sheep and horses, and is no stranger to aging, declining animals. Still, I know it's a huge favor to ask.
With car loaded, the two dogs and I are ready to go. Picturesque roads and small town bookstores await us. For me it would be unalloyed excitement, except that one worthy adventurer, whose favorite thing in life is to bury her nose in a human neck, has to stay behind.
Four years ago when I went to Alaska, I took all three dogs, and spent a month traveling. At night, I tied the dogs near the tent, far enough apart that they couldn't get entangled. In the daytime, the four of us explored paths through deep woods, walked around lakes, and up mountainsides. I leashed the dogs if other people or dogs were near, but we had most places to ourselves. Mimi stayed close, velcroed to my jeans.
Mimi joined our family 14 years ago, a birthday present for my daughter, Mary. At the time, we had another Border collie, Duncan, the subject of the recently published memoir. Duncan wanted no help in handling his flock of sheep. A couple of times, Mary and I let Mimi try her paw at herding, and she had speed and talent, but she preferred crawling onto a person's lap and resting her nose against their ear. In the snuggling department, Mimi had no peer.
I inherited Mimi when Mary left home. Besides Duncan, I had a flock guardian, Gracie, a Great Pyrenees. Mimi had no unique role back then. But in the last several years, she has won a distinction for herself; she became the dog who stuck closest to me on outings. I walk my dogs on public land, and Shakespeare sometimes found disgusting stuff to roll in, and refused to come when called. Mick stayed with me on Idaho walks, but in Alaska he discovered squirrels, and with Border collie intensity, blocked out my cries for him to return. On a couple of occasions, I thought a bear had gotten him because he went missing for so long. Finally I spied him, rigid as a post, gaze locked on a squirrel in a tree, too absorbed to see me sitting on a nearby log, weeping.
Last spring, I found Mimi in a mud puddle, eyes rolled back in her head, limbs rigid. I carried her into the house. Her spinning eyes gave her a demonic look, but she remained sweet and trusting as I checked her over. I Googled her symptoms, and the information said she'd had a stroke. Expensive tests were available, but the recommended treatment was wait and see. If she got better in four days, she could survive.
I asked her to live so we could have summer walks together. Spring rains had made our walking spot beautiful. For two days I carried her in and out of the house, but on the third day, she managed a porch stair. Each day she improved. On our walks, she sometimes got confused about where she was, and one time, raced off in the wrong direction, intent on finding us. Despite her age, we couldn't catch up to her because she had a head start. She'd stop and listen to my whistle, then dash off again. She managed to find the car, and that's where the other two other dogs and I caught up to her.
In fall, I intended to dig a grave in the back field in case she didn't survive winter, but the ground froze before I got around to it. Fortunately, Mimi made it through.
This spring when I walked the dogs in the field behind my house, Mimi had to be on a leash because she became easily confused and couldn't see me and the other dogs. Still, at feeding time, she could dance on her hind legs when the food dish appeared.
On a walk in early June, for the first time Mimi became too tired to continue. I tried carrying her, but that lasted only a minute. She liked the attempt, though, because it resembled snuggling.
Riding in the car has become too uncomfortable for her, so during my trip Mimi will stay at my friend Debbie’s ranch. Debbie, the kindest of people, has many dogs, cats, cows, sheep and horses, and is no stranger to aging, declining animals. Still, I know it's a huge favor to ask.
With car loaded, the two dogs and I are ready to go. Picturesque roads and small town bookstores await us. For me it would be unalloyed excitement, except that one worthy adventurer, whose favorite thing in life is to bury her nose in a human neck, has to stay behind.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
On the Road
People who travel a lot say, "It's not about the place. It's about the people."
So true. We recall who hiked with us on the Grand Canyon trail, and the words we gasped to each other when we reached the rim, though memory of the colored rock layers and the geologic era they represent has faded.
But for some of us, it's not about the people or the place, it's about the dogs. No matter how many dogs we have at home, we get excited about meeting new ones when we're away.
My friend DeeDee came home from a dream-come-true trip to Greece raving about a wonderful Rottweiler she played with every morning on the beach. I recall an extraordinary art exhibit I saw in Central Park, though I remember better the dogs I saw there who wore bonnets and rode in baby carriages.
I'm off on a road trip with two of my dogs--Shakespeare, a German shepherd/Malamute, and Mick, a Border collie. My Pontiac Vibe has plenty of cargo area for dogs, tent, and camping supplies. My third dog, Mimi, also a Border collie, can't go because she is too infirm and it would ask too much of her. She will stay with a kind friend.
I will visit back-road bookstores to promote my book, A Dog for All Seasons, St. Martin's Press. I know the project will bring unusual dogs and their people into my life, because on the short trips I've taken so far, I've met or heard about dogs who have altered the lives of their human families.
Hunter, a reddish chocolate lab, wiggled up to greet me at an event. He allowed me to pat his head for an instant, then pushed through my legs. Finding myself straddling him, facing his tail, I asked his owner if Hunter believed himself to be a pony.
"He doesn't like to be petted on the head. He likes to be scratched on the butt."
When I honored his preference, Hunter came unhinged--hindquarters and tail swung in a dramatic arc. I didn't have to see Hunter's face; he smiled with his read end.
Hunter, his owner told me, flushed lots of birds. I asked if the pair of them brought many down. No, the man confessed. Hunter played his part, but the man couldn't shoot well. Hunter tolerates only two tries; after that, he won't flush more birds. On a recent hunting trip, Hunter disappeared, and when his human companion found him, he was flushing birds for someone who was a good shot. Hunter likes success.
Another large lab named Moose stayed busy greeting passersby. A survivor of neglect, Moose showed few negative effects of his earlier life, but his new parents said he panics and gets destructive if left at home. The solution: take Moose along. Fortunately, Moose's easy personality makes him welcome nearly everywhere.
At book signings, I've been surprised and touched when people asked me to sign copies of books to their dogs. More than once, the cherished dog had already died, but still the person wanted the book personalized to that dog.
One woman, who with her husband has rescued numerous dogs and has had as many as five in their home at one time, asked with damp eyes if I'd sign her copy to "all the dogs I've loved before." With Willie Nelson's voice playing in my head, singing to all the girls he'd loved before, I penned the words she requested. Maybe the woman got tearful remembering grand times with the dogs; maybe she remembered how much it hurt to lose them. Probably both.
A person would have to be hopelessly asleep not to notice the giant hold dogs have on our hearts and culture. Those who don't have dogs wonder what they're missing; those who have them love to trade stories.
For the next months, I'll bring you reports of the dogs I meet while driving the back roads of the West. Some canines will be impressive, some absurd, some unruly, some heroic. For every dog, there will be a person nearby who can't speak about the animal without exaggerating.
Meet ya at the dog dish.
So true. We recall who hiked with us on the Grand Canyon trail, and the words we gasped to each other when we reached the rim, though memory of the colored rock layers and the geologic era they represent has faded.
But for some of us, it's not about the people or the place, it's about the dogs. No matter how many dogs we have at home, we get excited about meeting new ones when we're away.
My friend DeeDee came home from a dream-come-true trip to Greece raving about a wonderful Rottweiler she played with every morning on the beach. I recall an extraordinary art exhibit I saw in Central Park, though I remember better the dogs I saw there who wore bonnets and rode in baby carriages.
I'm off on a road trip with two of my dogs--Shakespeare, a German shepherd/Malamute, and Mick, a Border collie. My Pontiac Vibe has plenty of cargo area for dogs, tent, and camping supplies. My third dog, Mimi, also a Border collie, can't go because she is too infirm and it would ask too much of her. She will stay with a kind friend.
I will visit back-road bookstores to promote my book, A Dog for All Seasons, St. Martin's Press. I know the project will bring unusual dogs and their people into my life, because on the short trips I've taken so far, I've met or heard about dogs who have altered the lives of their human families.
Hunter, a reddish chocolate lab, wiggled up to greet me at an event. He allowed me to pat his head for an instant, then pushed through my legs. Finding myself straddling him, facing his tail, I asked his owner if Hunter believed himself to be a pony.
"He doesn't like to be petted on the head. He likes to be scratched on the butt."
When I honored his preference, Hunter came unhinged--hindquarters and tail swung in a dramatic arc. I didn't have to see Hunter's face; he smiled with his read end.
Hunter, his owner told me, flushed lots of birds. I asked if the pair of them brought many down. No, the man confessed. Hunter played his part, but the man couldn't shoot well. Hunter tolerates only two tries; after that, he won't flush more birds. On a recent hunting trip, Hunter disappeared, and when his human companion found him, he was flushing birds for someone who was a good shot. Hunter likes success.
Another large lab named Moose stayed busy greeting passersby. A survivor of neglect, Moose showed few negative effects of his earlier life, but his new parents said he panics and gets destructive if left at home. The solution: take Moose along. Fortunately, Moose's easy personality makes him welcome nearly everywhere.
At book signings, I've been surprised and touched when people asked me to sign copies of books to their dogs. More than once, the cherished dog had already died, but still the person wanted the book personalized to that dog.
One woman, who with her husband has rescued numerous dogs and has had as many as five in their home at one time, asked with damp eyes if I'd sign her copy to "all the dogs I've loved before." With Willie Nelson's voice playing in my head, singing to all the girls he'd loved before, I penned the words she requested. Maybe the woman got tearful remembering grand times with the dogs; maybe she remembered how much it hurt to lose them. Probably both.
A person would have to be hopelessly asleep not to notice the giant hold dogs have on our hearts and culture. Those who don't have dogs wonder what they're missing; those who have them love to trade stories.
For the next months, I'll bring you reports of the dogs I meet while driving the back roads of the West. Some canines will be impressive, some absurd, some unruly, some heroic. For every dog, there will be a person nearby who can't speak about the animal without exaggerating.
Meet ya at the dog dish.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
