Help for Onyx, Just in Time for Christmas

I was wishing only yesterday that I would hear of a heartwarming dog story to post for Christmas.

A long time ago when I was a young reporter, I got to cover a story about a cat who made it home for Christmas. The cat had disappeared as the family got ready to leave a summer cottage in Michigan and return to Indiana. Family members searched everywhere, but couldn't find the cat, and finally, feeling sad, had to leave.

Almost four months later, a few days before Christmas, the family opened the door and an emaciated stray cat sat there. The family had no idea who it was, starved and matted, with pads on its feet worn away. The cat entered the room, went to the sofa, jumped up on it, and lay down to sleep.

The mom thought to check behind the cat's ear for a scar. The family's cat had had a surgery years before, and sure enough, the gaunt cat was their own lost one.

They could scarcely believe it. The cat would have had to cross two rivers and three interstate highways (the dad showed me a map), not to mention a host of other busy roads. They couldn't figure out how the cat, who rode to the cottage in a car, could figure out a way home on foot. But there she was. It was a great story to listen to and write up.

Today, an email arrived from a friend, along with a poster he'd created for the Humane Society, asking for help for an injured pug. No heartwarming Christmas story here. Onyx has a broken pelvis and two crippled back legs, and needs extensive surgery. My friend said rescuers dug buckshot out of the dog's rear end. Those who want to contribute to Onyx's surgery can mail checks to HSUV-Box 51021, Idaho Falls, 83405, and write on them "Second Chance Onyx."

Every pug I've known has been adorable and funny. (This isn't the real Onyx pictured here.) It's hard to think of someone mistreating one. I had un-Christmas-like thoughts about the dog's abuser, and almost hated to pass along the poster to my dog-lovin' friends because it's so difficult to hear of these things.

On the other hand, Onyx is safe now. And people will make sure that his life from now on is filled with kindness.

So there's a heartwarming, Christmas aspect, after all. Big-hearted individuals and organizations stand ready to help dogs in need.

Weibel, Earth Angel

Karen, from Colorado, believes she and her husband Darrel wouldn't be doing half so well without Weibel, a pup they adopted from a shelter. The couple has medical challenges, and Weibel, they believe, is their earth angel.

The couple found the six-month-old pup at a foster home they visited. They intended to get a female, but Weibel, who had been rescued from a kill shelter in Kansas, walked up to Darrel, jumped into his lap, and sat down. It was obvious he'd declared himself their new dog. Because Schnauzers are German, Karen gave the dog her German ancestors family name.

Darrel has recent health struggles brought on by a minor surgery that went wrong. His new limitations include giving up driving. Weibel seems to know Darrel needs encouragement, and when Darrel looks Weibel in the eye and tells him what a good boy he is, and how nicely he played with dogs at the dog park, the pup begins to jabber as if he is telling his side of the story. Karen said she could hardly believe this interaction the first time she saw it, but it has become common.

Though Weibel has bonded strongly with Darrel, Karen, who for years has struggled with Lupus and fibromyalgia, has a positive connection with the dog, too. When she speaks to him, he listens. Sometimes she discusses with him, in an affectionate way, certain behaviors and why they must change. Weibel pays close attention to her words, then climbs into Karen's lap to cuddle.

Dog Pessimists

I've thought “dog” and “happy” were synonymous. My dogs show a range of emotions from in a good mood, to insane with joy. Dogs think the simplest things—a dish of water, the same old food day after day, a leash appearing from the closet—are reasons for rejoicing.

But science knows how to blow up our cherished beliefs. British researchers have recently reported that some dogs, like humans, are pessimists. Those dogs look at life as a bowl half or even completely empty.

The researchers placed bowls in two rooms. One bowl contained food, while another was empty. After the dogs understood that bowls could sometimes be empty and sometimes full, they began to place bowls in other locations. Dogs that quickly raced to the new locations were optimistic, researchers thought, and those that didn't were judged to be pessimistic. Half the dogs made the pessimist category.

The researchers also observed that the pessimistic dogs were more apt to act out when left alone. So fear may have been a part of their reaction.

The study involved only 24 dogs, who lived in shelters. That half of shelter dogs behaved as optimists may say something about the stubborn hopefulness of canines. Maybe the scientists should try again, using more dogs and ones who live in families. Only, the researchers might find themselves overwhelmed by bouncing, licking, tail-waggers.

In Memory of Mac

When Mac, short for Macintosh, was a year old, he achieved some fame when his person, Jana, posted a story titled “The Welcome” on a Border collie site. Told from the dog's point of view, the story described Mac's reaction to Jana arriving home. Jana nailed it for dog lovers, who saw their own dogs in Mac's insane joy at his person's return.

The story spread to other Internet sites, attributed to anonymous, but Jana's friends tried to correct that and give her credit. (To read it, scroll halfway down at http://www.cbcr.org/archive_features/.)

Jana also wrote stories for the Carolina Border collie rescue organization, about dogs available for adoption and their histories.

Jana and Mac linked up when he was eight weeks old. Jana said he didn't herd with “the big hats,” but one time won a herding trial, beating 80 other dogs.

In late August, Mac died unexpectantly; the vet believed he had a tumor on his big, kind heart. Jana and her husband mourn and miss him, as does their female Border.

Rescue Me

Sherlock, a beautifully marked Sheltie, was valued by his former owners for the breeding fees he brought their way.

When writer/librarian/dog advocate Bobbie Pyron and her husband, Todd, brought Sherlock home after adopting him through a Sheltie rescue organization, the dog blundered into walls and doors and Bobbie feared he had poor vision. But her veterinarian told her the problem is common to puppy mill dogs who have spent their days in crates.



Sherlock gets around fine now, and happily walks nature trails near Bobbie and Todd's home in Park City, Utah, along with the family's two other personable and well-adjusted Shelties, also rescue dogs.

Beau is the kind of Border collie who looks deeply into a person's eyes and soul, creating an instant bond. He was fostered by Tanya Cain, the president of Western Border Collie Rescue, who found she couldn't part with him. She calls Beau her “guilty pleasure.”

Max is a sable Border collie who greeted people at the Western Border Collie Rescue table at the Soldier Hollow Classic dog trials, and looked happy when children seized and hugged him. He will find a home where people treasure his easy- going nature and friendliness.

A handsome, rescued female looks like she could trot off to a dog show and win first place. Her adoptive family calls her “the Border Barbie.”

Jim, a seven-month-old pup, has been fostered by Debbie and Kevin Gardiner, who have three other Borders. No one wants to speculate why Jim had a broken leg that never was treated, and healed incorrectly. It is known that Jim lived feral for a time on the desert in Southeastern Idaho. The rescue organization is paying to have a surgery on the leg.

During the summer, I met dozens of rescue dogs—mutts and identifiable breeds—who have turned out to be wonderful additions to the families where they were placed. Many families believe rescue dogs remain permanently grateful for their new, stable homes.

With such great dogs available, the question comes up—why do people still buy from breeders, some of whom employ terrible practices?

The Dog Who Wouldn't Die

On a radio show where I was being interviewed, the host invited people to call in and tell stories of how their dogs had helped them.

One man called and said he didn't have that kind of story; he had a different sort. His grandpa, a farmer, had a dog who kept having brushes with death. Once, someone shot the dog accidentally. Twice, the dog got hit by cars. He got into poison and got ill. He had periods when he was sick and recovering, but nothing Life threw at the dog could take him out.

The dog was the farmer's constant companion. Then the farmer got sick. The dog stayed at the ill man's side. When the farmer died, it seemed for a while like the dog might transfer his loyalty to the farmer's widow. He stayed attentive to her for a few days, then went back to wandering the farm, searching for his friend, the farmer.

Two weeks after the farmer died, the dog laid down and didn't wake up. The family thought it was amazing that the dog who had withstood all kinds of calamities and injuries couldn't survive the loss of his best human friend.

Soldier Hollow Classic Sheepdog Competition

For Labor Day weekend, I signed books at the Soldier Hollow Classic Sheepdog Championship.



I've only been to play days and demonstrations and never seen an official trial before, but even a newbie like me could see why attendance at the Utah venue keeps soaring. It's hard to imagine a more attractive setting. This year's attendance broke a world record for sheep dog trials.

Spectators sit on a hillside, surrounded by tall hills, and watch as a competitor dog runs up a hill and out of sight, then reappears moments later driving sheep down the mountain. The dog puts the sheep through a set of fetch panels, drives them across the hillside and through other gates, and eventually into a circle where he will separate out a certain number of sheep. Finally, he puts those selected sheep into a small pen. The shepherd signals the dog mostly with whistles, but sometimes with voice commands.

Competitors come by invitation only, so all the shepherds and dogs know their stuff.

The big Rambouillet ewes, fresh off the range, were rugged and uncooperative. One competitor from Europe told a friend he'd never seen such wild sheep.

The final day featured 15 finalists performing an even harder course. I slipped away from my table to watch fellow Idahoan Lavon Calzacorta, and his beautifully precise dog, Tess. Sometimes my heart went into my throat when a recalcitrant ewe threatened to ruin everything. Calzacorta placed third to win the Bronze medal. A Canadian woman and dog took the gold, and the silver went to a South African team.

For the closing ceremony, a band of bagpipers in blue kilts and knee socks, led by a dignified drum major, came off the hillside, piping. Sheep were let loose on the hillside. It seemed fitting to me that they should be acknowledged, too.

As the awards were presented, flags from Canada, South Africa, and the U.S. were hoisted. The crowd stood for the Canadian national anthem. Meanwhile, dogs who stood on the awards platform with their shepherds, medals hanging from their necks, swiveled their heads, trying to watch sheep that ran loose on the hillside. Probably thinking they needed to remedy that.

Mighty Moose

Dogs and Household Responsibilities

My neighbor, Debisu Hyde, sent an email alerting me to a story in Reader's Digest about a Border collie who keeps his person on task. The dog wakens his owner in the morning by taking off the sheets when the alarm goes off, helps gather dirty dishes, and brings them to the sink one at a time.

After reading this, Debisu wondered if her dog, Moose, a Bichon, was pulling his weight. I had to wonder about mine, too. Two of my three dogs are Borders, and none help with household chores.

When Moose got wind of our speculating, he sent me this email.

"Despite the fact that Boss Man often finds me napping in the same room where Mom is working, you must understand the extreme pressure that is put on me.

"First, it is my duty to keep everyone on schedule in the morning. This task is admittedly done involuntarily with my puppy bladder, and also my stomach, which demands that I have my doggie treat before the world can start spinning. Second, I am the navigator to help get the kids to and from school. This requires that I put my face out the window and smell the air, to assure that my family is safe from unknown aromas that only my expert nose can detect.

"I lend my ears to Mom during the day as she talks to her computer, the phone, and oftentimes, to herself. I keep the floors clean from any food damage and keep Mom informed if my water or food dish gets too low. Finally, and the thing that is most draining, is keeping that stupid cat in line. No one else in the family volunteers to point out the voles that I spy from my dog yard, let alone help her eat them. No one else puts up with her bipolar cat tendencies.

"This summer, I helped weed the garden and kept Mom safe while she harvested things from the ground.

"I know that Mimi, Mick, and Shakespeare do a lot more than they tell you. Like you said about Duncan, the thing that us four-legged creatures give that can't often be found is unconditional love. That is the greatest thing to give.

Love, Mighty Moose "

The Berkeley Pit, Butte, MT

Auditor, the Strip Mine Dog

Auditor, a stray dog, lived to be 17 years old at the Berkeley Pit in Butte, Mt., a Superfund site. The area where the dog lived is barren of vegetation, and water in the pond is so heavy with poison that when a flock of snow geese landed on it in 1995, the water burned their feet before they could lift off, and the birds died.

At some point, miners started leaving food out for Auditor and made him a shanty for shelter. But the dog disappeared for long periods and no one knew how he survived, especially during harsh winter months. The dog, who had shaggy dreadlocks, had been dumped as a puppy in the parking lot, and he never overcame his distrust of humans.

Butte has a statue of the dog at its mining museum, and townspeople look to Auditor as a symbol of the resilience of Butte and its residents.

Rescue from the Desert

Michelle, who lives in St. George, UT, told me this story at a campground in Gunnison, CO.

A couple out for a hike in the desert near St. George got separated from their Labrador-mix dogs when a thunderstorm came up. The dogs probably couldn't hear their people calling because of the rain.

The owners returned to the desert several times to search for the dogs, but without success.

Michelle and her husband were on an outing to the desert when they saw two dogs out running. Michelle wanted to pick them up, but her husband thought the dogs' owner might be nearby, hiking.

When Michelle returned to town and became aware that someone had lost dogs on the desert, she returned to where she'd spotted them. She couldn't find them, and was about to return to her car when a voice in her head said, "Make noise."

"I have no idea what that voice was," she said.

She made a yelping noise, which bounced off the canyon walls and carried a long ways. Two emaciated dogs came running, and eagerly jumped into her car.

The dogs' owner, who had given up because the dogs had been lost 10 days, cried when Michelle called to say she had them. The dogs had lost 10 pounds each. One needed extensive treatment, but both dogs recovered.

The dogs wouldn't have survived the harsh desert if it hadn't been for the storm that separated them from their owners in the first place. Water had lingered in puddles and in natural bowls in rocks.

Vargo's Jazz City & Books, Bozeman

Francis Vargo makes the decisions in his Bozeman MT. store about what new and used books to stock, what cds and vinyls to have on hand, and which greeting cards he'll order. He also chooses what appealing music to play in the background.

His assistant, Jazz, is in charge of public relations. She welcomes customers and provides a willing, tranquil head to pat. She does her job well, going about it in a quiet, dogged way. Sometimes she goes outside to sit on the cool sidewalk and observe passersby.

People like Jazz so well, they want to tip her by giving her treats. Francis sometimes has to discourage this if a person doesn't understand dog dietary taboos and wants to give her something like a chocolate ice cream cone.

Jazz, book store assistant

 

Coyotes

At a campground in the White River Nat'l Forest in Colorado, I pitched my tent, then went off for a walk with Shakespeare and Mick.

A long, empty road ran beside a river, and after we'd gone a long way on it, I turned the dogs loose. After riding in the car all day, they streaked off to run, explore, and get a cold drink of river water.

We'd gone a good ways when I heard rustling in the bushes that lined the river. I thought it might be a deer, but a coyote appeared on the bank and barked at my dogs. I dove for Shakespeare and caught him before he broke through the underbrush, and snapped a leash onto him. But Mick, normally cautious about water, dove into the river, crossed it, and disappeared.

We have a coyote who barks at us on our walks at home. I've been keeping the dogs leashed more than I used to because of stories of dogs getting lured by one coyote, to where a pack is waiting. In that wild, empty terrain, I panicked about Mick and blew my whistle like crazy. I had horrible visions of what might happen.

After a minute, he came crashing through the willows, soaked. I gave him a treat and leashed him, and we started back to the campground. The large coyote kept pace with us from the other side of the river, barking every step of the way.

A white pickup drove out of the campground and met me. “What's going on?” a woman asked. “We heard a coyote, and we knew a woman was out walking her dogs. Get in!” I said no thank you because I had a soaking dog. She said it didn't matter, but I assured her I was fine to walk back to the campground.

Near my camping spot, two couples from RVs discussed the coyote. We agreed I should keep my dogs inside for the night, so Mick stayed in the tent and Shakespeare in the car. Soon after we went to bed, coyotes moved in close and began to howl. Old sheepmen say two coyotes can sound like 40, but it did sound like a chorus of them. Oddly, neither of my dogs responded to the cries, and we fell asleep.

In the morning, the campground host and his wife told me they'd considered moving me from my isolated spot when the coyotes came near. The coyotes had never come in close like that, and they worried about us. The two hosts had hopped onto their ATV and gone to the campground's edge, intending to fire a gun and frighten the coyotes. But they shined a light around and couldn't see them. Another camper had taken his ATV out, too, and kept vigil near where the coyotes appeared to be assembled.

Hearing this, I felt grateful and guilty. Grateful that kind strangers had kept watch, guilty that I slept through it.

Bella and Georgia, English mastiffs

I met Pete and Roberta Apple, from South Texas, at a campground in Loveland, CO. They were walking two good-looking English mastiffs--Bella, 10 years old, foreground in the above picture, and Georgia, behind her.

Bella is a retired hospital therapy dog who was trained under the Delta Program. She also was a "read dog" who went to schools and listened to children read who were behind on their reading skills.

Bella is five years old and not yet mature enough for hospital training. Pete has some questions about whether she will ever be, and also whether he and Roberta have the stamina to repeat the training.

Shakespeare, before he got lost

Shakespeare's Big Adventure

Robert Frost said good fences make good neighbors. Neighbors can be a boon when the fence fails, too.

I left Shakespeare and Mick at David and Linda Jessup's Loveland home during a visit to their Sylvan Dale working guest ranch outside of town. An eight-foot fence surrounded the yard, so my only concern was for the yard; I hoped my dogs wouldn't nap atop the flowers.

In the afternoon, while Linda was showing me the horses, a thunderstorm came up and a gully washer rain fell. After Linda and I had started for town, I remembered Mick and his Border collie terror of lightning and thunder. I hoped he'd find a place to hide under something. When we got to the house, the dogs were nowhere to be found.

I called them and Mick materialized from somewhere. Linda kindly invited him in the house. He ran to the bathroom, got in the shower stall and curled up small, hiding from the storm.

Shakespeare didn't come when called, but this didn't surprise me. At home, he won't emerge from his house during a storm even when I invite him inside. He is a comfort-loving dog and doesn't like to get wet.

Linda, David, and I went off to a meeting of Northern Colorado writers. When we returned, I began to get alarmed. The rain had stopped, but there was no sign of Shakespeare.

David said, "I found the gate open." Linda and I remembered shutting it.

I worried about Shakespeare loose in a town. He's a rural dog and not traffic savvy. I consoled myself that he had new rabies and ID tags on his collar if someone found him.

Linda made a call to the Humane Association and yes, they had a report of a found dog. He had turned up at the house next door.

Jerry, the neighbor, said that in the midst of the storm a large canine head had appeared in the living room window. The dog stranger wore a "May I please come in?" expression. They invited him in. The tags I'd had confidence in had come off and only the open, empty hook remained.

After the storm ended, Molly, a teenager, put a rope on Shakespeare and walked him around the neighborhood, trying to find his owner.

Once, a car slowed and the occupants rolled down their windows. Molly thought it must be the dog's owners.

"What breed is that cross-eyed dog?" a person called.

(Note: It's hard to guess Shakespeare's breed--German shepherd/malamute--because he's shorn for summer. But his eyes do not cross. He has one brown and one blue one.)

Next morning, while I was packing the car, Linda watched Shakespeare slap the gate with his great paw. He'd probably done that during the storm and dislodged the latch.

At home, I'm used to having generous next-door neighbors. It's a great thing to encounter them on the road, too.

Dogs As Currency

Traveling with dogs, I worry about them inconveniencing folks. At campgrounds, I walk them before bedtime so they will be tired and quiet. This may be a silly concern because I'm often parked next to a large RV with a loud generator that allows its inhabitants to be unaware of outside noises.

Coloradoans Linda and David Jessup invited me to visit their working guest ranch, Sylvan Dale, in Loveland. They also offered to set up a signing and reading at Loveland's Anthology Book Store. I said I would be traveling with dogs and they said no problem; their house in town had a fenced yard.

The Jessup's house turned out to be an elegantly remodeled older home on a quiet block, with a beautiful yard. I wondered if a dog might decide to lay down on beautiful flowers or plants. The Jessups told me not to sweat it.

I said the dogs didn't need to come inside. The Jessups said they did. When an afternoon thunderstorm got the dogs wet and muddy, I dried them with a towel, but muddy tracks still appeared on the sun room's tiles. I offered to run a mop, but my hostess turned me down.

My visit included a tour of the beautiful ranch, lunch with the guests and staff, and an evening visit to a Colorado writer's group. Next morning, Linda took me to the Loveland Sculpture Garden. I said the dogs didn't need to come along; they would leave hairs on her car's clean back seat. Linda said they should come because they'd be in the car all day and needed to get out.

When I thanked Linda for her and David's lavish hospitality, she said, "You had currency. You brought dogs."

And I'd worried Shakespeare and Mick might be a nuisance.

Some Givens about Camping

There are certain things you can count on when camping. The weather, number of insects, and temperature can vary, but some things are fixed.

For instance, it's a given that you will leave behind an essential tool. For me, it's the hammer. On an earlier trip, I pounded in tent pegs using large rocks. I creamed a couple of fingers and the tent pegs looked a little worse for it, too. I promised myself before I hit the road again, I'd make a list of things to remember. I did that, and this time as I got ready to go, I checked items off my list. The hammer, checked off the list, lays on the kitchen table at home.

In this same vein, no matter how carefully you check your toiletries bag before trudging off to the campground's shower house, you will arrive there missing something you need. Today, it was the soap. I discovered it missing when I was ready to step into the shower. Going back to the car and tent didn't seem practical. I decided instead to use very hot water.

A half hour later, when I was dressed and combed, the soap dish appeared, hiding in a corner.

Say you get a wonderful night's sleep. The ground where you set your tent had no sharp objects you'd failed to see before bedtime, and no lumpy ridges became obvious at 2 am. The temperature stayed perfect for sleeping. The motorcyclists arrived before sundown and set up by bedtime. Their machines remained quiet, not like the time when motorcycles kept arriving all night.

When you woke up, you noticed how wonderful you felt, having slept all night close to your mama, Mother Earth. Birds sang gloriously.

But your body does not communicate this feeling of well-being to your hair. For all your hair knows, you spent the night running from wild beasts. Above the body that feels peaceful, your hair sticks up like twigs, going in all directions. And before you can tame it with water and a comb, you will frighten several other campers.

Patti Stevenson and Max off for a Ride

Therapists Max and Ralphie, with a Starbucks

Voted Most Popular at the Boise Farmer's Market

I was making my way through a crowd of people, shoppers who'd come to the Saturday Farmer's Market in downtown Boise. I was trying to find the Rediscovered Bookshop on Eighth Street. When I saw the store's sign I crossed the street, but then stopped in midflight. I'd spotted two magnificent St. Bernards lumbering down the sidewalk on leashes.

I changed directions and followed the dogs. The larger of the two seemed to me the longest dog I'd ever seen. Both he and the other dog had gleaming coats, and petting them became my new mission.

I wasn't the only person who had this as a goal. The people with the dogs could move forward only a foot at a time; everyone stopped them, wanting to touch the beautiful animals.

“If we're in a hurry, we don't take the dogs,” Patti Stevenson told me. Max and Ralphie, the dogs, are therapy animals that Patti and her husband, Jim, take to the Veteran's Home. Max, the larger, is four years old, and Ralphie is two.

It seems the dogs dispense good feeling wherever they go. The dogs have a two-year-old fan who looks forward to Saturdays and the market so she can love on the dogs. Patti said a tiny Yorkie who could fit in the palm of her hand also loves Max, and likes to crawl up on his back. While we stood visiting, a woman stopped to say hi who also has therapy dogs, Bassets. She said her own dogs love the big animals and get happy whenever they see Max and Ralphie.

My camera sat in the car about 10 blocks away, but Patti nicely offered to send me pictures, which had arrived by the time I got home.

Max and baby Kathlyn

The Importance of Cookies to Travel

You can't expect to know a place without sampling its cookies.

Some of my friends have gone over to gluten-free, others avoid butter and dairy; others stay away from sugar. But I persist in eating cookies. Eating a locally baked cookie can tell you more about a town than anything you'd learn from the Chamber of Commerce guidebook. Ice cream can do the same, if it's made locally, but generally it's shipped in from distant places.

I try to eat the cookies at a spot where I can enjoy a distinctly local view. The other night I stopped to watch a sunset from a beautiful, high ridge. Sitting on a boulder, I ate a cookie purchased from the town's Main Street bakery. A snickerdoodle, rich in cinnamon.

Dogs want treats, too, of course, and I carry healthful dog cookies for them. Ones that won't harm their teeth, are vitamin-enriched and have coat brighteners in them. The dogs go nuts over them. I don't hold to such a high health standard for myself. I'm after flavor.

A few summers ago, when the dogs and I were driving a long, empty stretch in Yukon Territory, Canada, I dreamed about a buying a cookie when we finally reached a gas station. The station we came to had one pump, rusted and ancient. Inside, I bought a large gingersnap.

I asked the woman how cold it got there in the winter, and she said minus 60. I asked her how the stock survived those temperatures and she looked puzzled. “The horses and cattle,” I said. “Oh! We don't have any of them. The wolves would eat them.”

Later, the dogs and I took a walk on a deserted road. I pulled out my cookie. It apparently had been baked the previous year; I bit into granite. A gingersnap with emphasis on snap. I persevered to chew it, but then, somewhere on a hillside, a wolf howled. My three dogs came tearing down the road, I dropped my cookie, and all of us sprinted for the car.

I've heard no wolves this summer, and the cookies have all been fresh. There was the warm chocolate chip cookie in Moab, eaten beside a river swollen with snowmelt, the peanut butter cookie eaten at a pullout while gazing at Mount Borah, the Swedish cookie from a German bakery in Jackson, WY . . . You get the picture.

It's Tough to Be Independent

Consider what the independent book store owner has to contend with. Large chains that can buy in volume, the Internet, which lets people shop for books from home, e-books, which can be downloaded, fewer people taking time to read, plus, a poor economy. No wonder many independents have closed their doors.

Phyllis Lamken, owner of Dark Horse Books in Driggs, Idaho, heard of a store helped financially by a philanthropist who wanted her local independent book store to stay afloat.

“How nice, ” I said.

“No,” Phyllis said. She herself would not want such help. She wants stores to remain open because the communities they serve recognize their value and support them.

Independents play an important role. They hold activities for children, host forums on local issues, cooperate with libraries to sponsor literary events, and bring in writers for discussions, poets for readings, and musicians to entertain. They serve as a community hub.

Phyllis believes the music industry made a mistake by not giving more support to music stores. Stores acted as havens where people could go and listen to music and talk with other music fans. Since music stores have closed, most music sales happen on the Internet.

Daiva Chesonis, the manager of the book store side of Between the Covers Bookstore and Espresso Bar in Telluride, Colorado, says stores like hers are probably safe from competition from large chain stores, because such chains usually locate new stores in communities with larger population.

She has a hopeful figure to cite, too. In the last year, despite a trend toward independents closing their doors, a few new independents have popped up and opened for business.

Ringo from Riverside

Ringo likes whatever activity his people engage in, but he likes fast best. Mountain biking, running, Frisbee, agility, find-it games, hiking. He likes the program Dancing with the Stars, especially Latin numbers, and shows which couple he prefers by running to the TV and jumping on it. So far, he has picked winners.

Ringo understands lots of words, and his person, George Bolte, said he and his wife must use Pig Latin or spell when they want to keep something from him.

He likes to sit quietly, too, but when his people make a move to go, Ringo is oh-so ready.

Ringo, Who Is Always Ready

Woof, Who Has Many Friends

Photo by Jayme Feary

SMILES

My writer friend Jayme Feary trains dogs and horses. His own dog, Woof, an Australian shepherd/Border collie cross, went with him on a solo Continental Divide horse/muleback ride.

Woof has an easy-going disposition, plus good manners that Jayme taught her. Lately, this already lovable dog has found a way to be even more appealing. She smiles.

Woof used to smile only when Jayme got after her. “Woof!” he'd say, and she'd duck her head and lift the corners of her mouth, revealing white, even teeth. The smile came off as cute. People who saw her do it laughed and commented, and that wasn't lost on Woof. Recently, the dog has taken to smiling when she isn't feeling guilty, she smiles to get attention. She didn't have to read the books; she figured it out for herself. A good way to win friends is to smile more.

This came in handy recently. Jayme is joining the University of Montana's MFA in writing program. He found a small apartment he liked in Missoula, but the landlord said, “No dogs.” Clever Woof sidled up to the man, looked up, and offered her best smile. Jayme and Woof are moving in.

But there is more to Woof than charming smiles. She can be fierce when she thinks the situation calls for it. One recent day, I sat in a restaurant parking lot in Jayme's car. In the back seat, dozing and content, lay Woof and an Australian shepherd dog guest named Faith. Jayme and I had earlier visited in the restaurant with a man in leather and boots who was waiting for his motorcycle to be repaired. When Jayme said he had to check his dogs the man said, “Sure, go on. There are two things I really know. Dogs and Harleys.”

We didn't see the man approach the car and lean against its side. We became aware of him when Woof and Faith tried to go through the car window to eat him alive. The pair of them flung themselves at the glass, snarling and barking. It startled the man so badly he jumped out of his boots.

Jayme told the dogs to cool it, but after the man left it was Jayme who growled. “Knows dogs.” He shook his head. “Didn't he realize? The nicest dogs in the world will protect their car, and the people in it.” Jayme's lips lifted in a smile-an uncharitable one. “I think that guy will have to change his pants.”

Tragedy, Triumph, and Rotten Behavior

Twenty years ago, the woman lost her husband and her dog. The two of them drowned.

The woman's friends, worried about her despair and fragile hold on life, raised money to buy her a puppy.

I sat next to the woman at a Saturday night barbecue. She lives in Wyoming, dresses Western, raises bison, exudes energy, and remembers with gratitude the pup who saved her life.

“I was so sad I didn't want to live. But then, I had a puppy to take care of.”

I found it inspiring that the woman's friends found a way to help her hang on, and that the woman had opened her heart to love again after grievous disappointment. But the story didn't stay altogether lovely. When I asked the woman how long she'd had the dog, and if it had remained her great friend for its whole life, she told me a disgruntled neighbor had poisoned it. The woman suspected that's how her dog died, but then other neighbors confirmed the man was bragging about it.

Hard to square both sides of human nature in this story. The heroism of a young woman who finds strength to keep going in part because of the kindness of friends, against the nastiness of a man who, instead of airing grievances real or imagined to the dog's owner, gave the dog a horrid death.

Mick. A Good Traveler

What Mapquest Can't Know

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.

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.”

Practicing

Sailor, a six-month old Border collie, practices his herding skills on Baby Isla. He has her right where he wants her.

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.”

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.

Mimi, Who Can't Go

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.

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.

Hannah, Who Longs to be a B.C.

Hannah appears here because she wishes she were a Border collie. Also, she displays a keen fashion sense. She lives with Caleb and Nathan in Mt. Home, Idaho.