It snowed last night. I can smell it, even if I can’t see it from my bed. What they say about a dog’s sense of smell being 20,000 times better than a human’s? Right, I guess, even if I don’t know what “20,000 times better” means. I’ll just say I can smell it when it snows, so I don’t need to get up out of bed and look out the window. Like He does.
Anyway, new snow means at some point today He’ll lace up the boots He wears when we go skiing and command me: “right to the car.” When we’re driving down the road, sometimes He’ll open the back window, and I stick my nose into the rush of scents.
I’m pretty good about doing what he tells me, mostly because most of the time it’s something I like. But the other day after skiing, he told me to get in the car, but I got a scent in my nose that dragged me deep into the woods beyond the parking lot. We’ve been through this before. When I return, He glares at me. And my ears droop, my hind legs sag, my tail curls up beneath me. But what does He expect? It’s like whatever’s in him that gets captured by the bright, moving lights on the TV hanging on the living room wall, it’s in me to catch a scent and chase after it.
When we get to the ski place, I’m so revved up and wiggly in the car it’s hard for him attaching my leash.
At the place where He puts his skis on sometimes there are other people, and He keeps my leash in hand. Even though the leash is loose, I can feel a tension pulsing down from his hand to my collar. Sometimes another dog will approach. Then the leash goes taut.
If He senses no other people or dogs He lets the leash go and I’m free. I pee and poop off in the trees alongside the trail. And then I sniff and sniff and sniff. If He gets too far ahead, I hear Him calling. Sometimes I don’t hear Him right away. Whatever scent is in my nose makes it hard for me to hear. That’s when He whistles, which He doesn’t like to do because He has to take His gloves off and use His fingers to make the whistle that’s loud enough to get my attention.
What you should know about me is that I’m afraid most of the time. Fear forms my background understanding of what it means to be dog. But you wouldn’t know it, because my fear is masked as aggression. You should hear my bark. It sounds like a fighter jet breaking the sound barrier. But it’s not all the time. Like, I don’t know why sometimes another dog will see me and come bounding up to me and no problem. Other times, I don’t want another dog or another human in my space. I don’t know why. But He’s learned to play it safe, which is what that tension is I sometimes feel when He’s holding my leash.
I’m ten and a half years old but I still love to run. In fact, I love a lot of things – like my family and the food that gets put in my bowl twice a day and snow and running. I think what I feel about these things is love. But I’m also afraid of a lot of things. And because I’m getting older, I’m also cranky. Which means that the line between love and fear is disappearing. Sometimes I’ll start barking at the car pulling in the driveway because I think it’s a threat even though I must know it’s His car. I’ve been in it like a million times. You’d think I know it – by sight, sound, and smell. So, when a dog approaches me on the trail, I don’t know if it’s a threat or just saying hello. We do that, you know? Just say hello.
Anyway, the other day we were skiing through a big open field. Up ahead the trail gullied down where it crossed a frozen stream, and I saw something moving through the underbrush. I sprinted out ahead of Him because that’s what I do. I chase things. School buses, snowplows, black pick-up trucks – anything I think I can catch. 35, 40 mph – no problem. This day I chased after an animal almost my size but with a broad, flat tail. It didn’t move very fast so catching him was a cinch. I’m not much for playing and I really didn’t have any plans for what I was going to do when I caught up to this critter (later, back in the kitchen with Edie, I heard Him call it a beaver), so we just stood looking at each other, the beaver and me, until He skied up and pulled me by the leash back onto the trail.
I’m learning. Now when he drops the leash, letting me drag it behind me through the snow, I’ve learned to stop when I see a dog or skier up ahead. My ears go up, and after I’ve sized up the situation, I turn my head back to let Him know He should take me by the leash. He does and leads me to the side of the trail where I sit and let the situation pass. There’ve been a time or two when the situation includes another dog or, worse, two. If they’re off leash, it’s a roll of dice what happens. Sometimes something emerges from that darkness in my long ago, and before I know what’s happened, I’m snarling and lunging at the other dog. The leash goes taut, my collar tightens and He drags me away. When the situation is past, He drops the leash and resumes with the skis and poles. And I’m free.
That’s what it means to be a dog. For me. I’m free until something opens the door to that darkness and I’m overtaken by a mood. Everything in my body changes. I can smell it. He can’t. Things happen faster than we can keep up with. I never know what’s going to happen. He doesn’t either.
