My Poor, Poor Dog

My dog Ginger has this orange and blue ball that she LOVES to chase and retrieve. Or I should say “had.” Let me start over:

My dog Ginger HAD this orange and blue ball that she loved to chase and retrieve. Two days ago we were at Edgerton Park and I was throwing grounders and line drives designed to speed by her head. (She seems to get most into the game when I can get the ball to pass within inches of her open mouth—or maybe that is just something I do to keep the game interesting to me?) Anyway, two days ago I was using our Chuckit! Ball thrower with Ginger and our other little dog, Lotti, when disaster struck.

Another thing Ginger likes is when I throw the ball high up into the air. She often loses sight of the ball, but over time she has developed an outfielder’s instinct for where the ball should come down. She does the instantaneous calculations ballplayers do and, based on the speed of my arm, the angle of the ball thrower at point of release, the wind speed and direction and the million other factors that determine trajectory, Ginger is able to position herself very near the spot this orange and blue ball will come down and begin its bouncy trip into her mouth.

Monday afternoon we were in the upper field at Edgerton when I let rip a high, arcing throw designed to take the ball over a 70 foot white pine and down on the other side. Ginger was already on the far side of the tree and she saw me launch the ball. Lotti was halfway between me and Ginger and she also saw the throw and, being a puppy and new to ball throwers, she had a rudimentary sense of where the ball might come down. THAT it would come down she had no doubt. Neither did I and neither did Ginger.



Yet, the ball did NOT come down. I had not put quite enough muscle into the throw and the ball entered the top branches of the tree and somehow stuck there. It was simply, silently, and tragically swallowed up by the tree. The three of us must have looked pretty comical with our heads back at 50-degree angles and our mouths agape. I knew what happened right away and Lotti had no idea at all. But poor Ginger. As a five-year old with LOTS of ball experience, she knows a thing or two about gravity. She also knows about object permanence. Mostly, Ginger knows that what goes up MUST come down.

It was clear from Ginger’s reaction that her faith in the laws of physics was shaken that day. She sat staring up at that tree for a long time. Then she started walking around the field, sniffing for the ball as if maybe it HAD come down but she had just missed hearing or seeing it. Every once in a while she would stop and look up with the oddest expression on her face. When it was time to leave the park she kept looking back over her shoulder with the same quizzical expression.

She has not been the same since that afternoon. She has always been a confident dog, moving through the world with grace and ease. Now, there is a hesitancy, a seeming loss of faith in the order of the universe. Because one day, her favorite ball went up into the air and IT NEVER CAME DOWN.

On the Cusp

That we are on the cusp of a new season became manifestly clear to me as I ran down the Farmington Canal Trail in Hamden this afternoon. I had my dog Ginger with me and the first thing we encountered as we trotted on the pavement was a pile of poop. I saw the pile at about the same time that Ginger smelled it and we both noticed something peculiar that made us slow down and 1) take a closer look, (me), and 2) take a deeper whiff, (Ginger). Being olfactorally challenged myself, I can’t say what Ginger noticed. What I saw was a bleached-out, grayish pile of crap with small slivers of bone and bits of teeth and fur embedded.

I am pretty sure it was coyote scat. In fact, a few months ago, back when the sun was setting at 4:30, I saw a coyote cross the trail as I was running very near this exact spot. It was probably the same individual that left his calling card there on the trail. As I finished my examination of the poop and Ginger strained at the leash to be allowed to continue hers, the cloud that had been blocking the sun blew a little farther south. The change was stunning. The air got ten degrees warmer and I looked up to see a deep blue sky punctuated by dramatic dark grey clouds.
Where even just five weeks ago the woods were relentlessly brown, tan, and grey, there were now patches of vibrant green where the skunk cabbages were unfurling their flags and staking out their yearly claim as earliest bloomers.

We ran on and Ginger became reluctant. First she slowed and then she stopped dead. I looked to the left and there were four large wild turkeys in a clearing about thirty feet off the trail. Something about them freaked Ginger out a bit. What I noticed was the flash of bright red coming from their wattles. It stood out like the little girl in red in Steven Spielberg’s Schindler’s List.

I managed to drag Ginger on and not even a half mile down the trail an Eastern Bluebird flew directly in front of us and landed on a branch just off the side of the path. If you have never seen an Eastern Bluebird, then no matter what words I use to name the color, you will not be able to picture it accurately enough to do it justice. What comes to mind is the image of an avian black hole, only the bird somehow manages to gather only blue from all around and then, instead of swallowing the blue, it reflects the most amazing shade back out to the world. It really was spectacular.



And now this may sound like piling on—like I am making this stuff up—but I swear it is true. Just then an osprey flew overhead and it was clutching a fish in its talons, heading to its nest to feed its young. The bird flew low enough that I could tell that the fish was still alive.

By this point in the run I was aware that the place I had spent three days a week all winter, running alone through rain or sleet or snow or ice or shine, was waking up to spring. There were more people, more birds, more plants, and more life than there had been in many months. And I must admit that I had mixed feelings about the whole deal. Part of me really liked having that trail and those woods to myself. If it took cold temperatures and icy footing to do it, so be it. I certainly won’t begrudge spring its chance to shine. In fact, I love the signs of color and life everywhere. But I think maybe I just wasn’t quite ready yet.

That run today went a long way to getting me ready, but it also performed a valuable service for me. It gave me a chance to see the trail almost as I have seen it all winter with its greys, tans, and browns. But sprinkled right on top, so startlingly as to be almost garish, were the colors and signs of spring.

I ran a little farther—to the point right around mile 5.5 where the trail goes under a road—to where I had seen a hawk perched much of the winter. I used to imagine that the hawk was waiting stoically for spring and whatever came with it. Today, the hawk was gone. But in the understory of shrubs and bushes there was a brilliant flash of red and a sharp series of chirps. I caught sight of a male cardinal—resplendent in the crimsonest crimson there is as he sang for a potential mate. He was fidgety and loud and certainly IMpatient to get things started. He looked me in the eye much the same way the hawk had just a few short weeks ago during a heavy snowfall. Only, the cardinal wasn’t preaching patience. His chattering call seemed to say, “What are you waiting for?”

Our Week In Vermont

We spent our school vacation week at a house in the woods of Vermont. It was just south of Brattleboro so it made for an easy two-hour drive. A stomach flu swept through our family at the beginning of the week, leaving us weakened but still happy to be there. We snowshoe-ed, ice skated on the pond, built a snowman, sat and read by the fire, and had a few friends come and visit. It was a good week. Our dog, Ginger, was in heaven. I don't have much to say about our week--just wanted to post some pictures.