We meandered off the Barrett Pkwy exit and entered a swanky residential neighborhood with huge lots and gated entrances flanking the gently sloping roadway. Sighting an enormous parking lot followed by a split-rail National Park gateway, I pulled into the gigantic but largely empty parking lot. The usual suspects were scattered across the absurd concrete expanse; lonely folks in parked cars of varying values avoiding eye contact with soccer moms striding confidently towards the paved roadside path, while a couple NorthFace suburban kids prepared for a day hike. No one acknowledged us, and we didn't bother either.
The dog and I jumped a red-clay washout and crossed a broad field kissed with wild phlox in bloom to a footpath on the other side. I tugged the leash off, and she went mundanely feral, snuffling loudly a couple yards ahead or behind me. The mood was determined and the sky was dark as clouds gathered for a show later. There was a particularly animated tree trunk; a Sweet-Gum to be precise, that presented itself to the left, sculpted into a snout facing up and Northeast. We traipsed over the railroad tracks, through another convex field, and onto an overgrown logging path. These broad dirt roads always make me feel so thirsty, so I struck off up the hill, noting the burgeoning poison ivy. A couple weeks and that hill must be impassible even to the most tough people hides.
As we approached the top there was a chair sunk knee deep in leaves facing a burned-out pine with a bum?-fire in the middle. Just the years-cold tracks of either boy-scouts or the intrepid homeless left-behind and sinking in. All signs were a little baneful and very post-human, with felled skeletons looming and their roots forming a colony of underground homes for whatever would nestle there. We continued quietly. I was practicing being very still while moving, doing a little Tom Brown roll with my feet as I high-stepped through more leaf-fall.
Rounding the hill, there were piles of rocks swooping broken-down along the crest of the ridge. Surely, it must be one of the Civil War Battlefields trumpeted on the Nat'l. Park signs. Pretty impressive for a piled up effort two centuries old. I mis-stepped vainly trying too hard to soft-foot, sunk leg-deep into a hole and out again all goose-bumped and suddenly afraid.
"Time to head back to civilization." I said outloud, and strange to the dog.
So we did, passing over the balding top and through the pseudo-graveyard and town. I was feeling even panicky and hurried the dog verbally and often, still weird and discombobulated. She stopped intently by a particularly large, and recently occupied root system. I followed her over to the open mouth of the den, and found her nudging a dead two-tone black canine puppy. It had healthy fur tipped silver in the clear light of spring. She was mis-behaving, whining, her maternal instinct all hackled up. I turned and almost stepped on another puppy, then another, both smaller than the first. All appeared to be healthy, excepting death. Dismayed isn't a strong enough adjective, but the panic was subsiding. These were just some abandoned corpses warming on an old battlefield, nothing to be alarmed or suprised about.
As we proceeded past the exposed and mother-less pups, the largest one gave a meek cry and shifted slightly. I couldn't leave him. I felt very purposeful, heroic even, as I whipped off my sweater and pulled his stiff body from the ground.
We hurried back, him curled up and swaying rhythmically in the sweater. Finally arriving back at the Subaru, and thinking of my afternoon plans, I drove to the nearest gas station for water while looking for a vet. I touched his grimy tongue with a wet finger and he mewed some more, and with more vigor. He seemed to be rallying slowly. We found a vet, who advised euthanasia and was out of formula. By the time we found the next vet, the sad little thing was warmed up and squirming. Vet #2 was not so dire and recommended formula, a heating pad, and some wildlife stations nearby. He doesn't look like a dog, probably a coyote.
I decided to go to house nearby that T is renovating in a Northwestern suburb. We stopped on the way for formula and a heating pad. I put the heating pad in a box and him on top, covered with the sweater. My hands itched and I wondered about mites or viruses. I started making phone calls. The two numbers I had were voice-mails, the second stating she was not accepting rehabiliations at this time and to call another number. So I did, smiling at the thought of my persistence paying off. The number yielded a concerned voice with the reassuring advice of formula, heating pad, and time. Their director had just died, they weren't taking animals either. But, she promised to call around.
I went into the garage and painted for a couple hours, checking on him sometimes. He seemed to be having sharp dreams, bad ones. He died I don't know when, his body much colder than the pad when I pulled it up and buried it in the copse of pines out back. It's very easy to dig in sandy soil. That made it easier. I stripped my clothes off and washed them, showered, and put on my spares.
T came in from being out of town and proposed to me at first sight. I was exhausted and started to cry.
I said yes.
We hurried back, him curled up and swaying rhythmically in the sweater. Finally arriving back at the Subaru, and thinking of my afternoon plans, I drove to the nearest gas station for water while looking for a vet. I touched his grimy tongue with a wet finger and he mewed some more, and with more vigor. He seemed to be rallying slowly. We found a vet, who advised euthanasia and was out of formula. By the time we found the next vet, the sad little thing was warmed up and squirming. Vet #2 was not so dire and recommended formula, a heating pad, and some wildlife stations nearby. He doesn't look like a dog, probably a coyote.
I decided to go to house nearby that T is renovating in a Northwestern suburb. We stopped on the way for formula and a heating pad. I put the heating pad in a box and him on top, covered with the sweater. My hands itched and I wondered about mites or viruses. I started making phone calls. The two numbers I had were voice-mails, the second stating she was not accepting rehabiliations at this time and to call another number. So I did, smiling at the thought of my persistence paying off. The number yielded a concerned voice with the reassuring advice of formula, heating pad, and time. Their director had just died, they weren't taking animals either. But, she promised to call around.
I went into the garage and painted for a couple hours, checking on him sometimes. He seemed to be having sharp dreams, bad ones. He died I don't know when, his body much colder than the pad when I pulled it up and buried it in the copse of pines out back. It's very easy to dig in sandy soil. That made it easier. I stripped my clothes off and washed them, showered, and put on my spares.
T came in from being out of town and proposed to me at first sight. I was exhausted and started to cry.
I said yes.
