Poof Balls and Predators

 

As Jake and I wait for them to safely clear the trail, I'm impatient and bordering on frustrated. The merry little poof ball dog trots happily off leash, stopping to sniff every two goddamn feet. 

Jake is in a sit and stay, eyes fixed on the tiny, moving mammal which looks terribly similar to a rabbit at this distance. He spits out the offering of duck jerkey I make for his compliance in the stay. His posture makes clear he'd prefer much fresher game. 

It's chilly and I want to move. The inertia after the brisk pace we'd just been traveling makes my muscles want to cramp. Jake wants to stand for the same reason; the sit is uncomfortable for him. So is the harness. Yet, we sit and stay, as patiently as we can. He's watching that pom pom dog thinking "chase catch shake eat". I know because I've seen him take out a skunk so ruthlessly efficiently the poor thing never had a chance to spray. 

I can see my car across the field. I'm anxious to get home. I am expecting a call from the veterinarian to discuss Sadie's x-ray results. We're both fairly certain it's her other ACL this time, but the swelling in her knee prevented the vet from testing the ligaments, and diagnostic imaging is necessary to confirm. There's likely arthritis to contend with. Her and me, both, baby. I've done both knees, too, and the cold and the still is making my own arthritis ping.

I wonder what the other woman is thinking as she meanders right by the "Dogs must be on leash at all times" sign. Is she wondering why that strange, stressed looking woman is standing awkwardly paused on the connecting side trail? Or wonder why her big, goofy looking shepherd is staring down her merry little puppy? She's aware this is a wildlife sanctuary, right? There are more dangerous creatures than Jake in these woods. "Stay on the path. Be bear aware!" reads another sign.

In spring and summer, wildflowers grow here, along the main path, before you reach the woods. Song birds and insects make the tall grass buzz and hum and chirp. It's October, now, the forest leaves are brilliant golds and rusts and ochre and the field is freshly mowed. I know walkers are not permitted to cross it. Nor do I particularly want to cross it, considering I just brushed three bright red ticks off Jake's legs and I can see purple bramble thorns next to my boot. 

The little white foo foo pup trots down the hill off the other side of the main path, and the woman follows, unsteadily wobbling down the steep incline. "Lady, come on," I say to no one. 

It's safer for both of us if I cross the field, back to my car. An owner this oblivious is not going to be helpful if the merry little poof decides to come say hello. It's a very friendly looking little poof. My catastrophically inclined imagination reminds me it will be a very dead little poof if something goes wrong and I fail to restrain Jake. 

She's gotta notice us up here, right? I'm giving her the human equivalent of Jake's stare. She babbles happily in a high voice as her precious little poopsie fertilizes the grass, somewhere out of sight. She waddles back up the hill, then turns, calling to her unseen pup, who does not appear.

I'm in dread of the moment of the little dog innocently ascends up the slope, spots Jake and me, and runs right for us barking merrily...

I opt for the field, brambles and all. No dead poofs today, lady. 

Safe in my car, exhausted after practically dragging my 85 pound Anatolian the length of a football field, I note there is shit on my boot. And ticks crawling up my pant legs. 

Good luck with the bears, Lady. You'll need it.