Forest rain

In the forest, rain is almost magical. It tumbles down through a mass of green leaves and tree branches and undergrowth, filling the spaces with a whimsical energy. A hundred different hues and tones glow with their own light in this new water-soaked world, lush and energized and begging to be explored.

It was on one such day almost a year ago when I felt that pull to be out in the rain. It was the kind of rain that is too alive to ignore, too frivolous not to go out and play.

I watched the first drops fall as I looked out the window into the trees. It wasn’t long before the initial sprinkle became a more insistent, more determined clatter on the roof, then before my eyes it deepened to a torrential downpour, becoming almost a living thing moving through the forest. Out in the open, over the road, it was a white sparkling shower and I scrambled to pull on my rain gear.

The dogs watched eagerly as I got ready, as excited as I was to be outside. They clamoured forward to get my attention and I felt envious of them. Besides getting Max into his wheelchair, the dogs were ready to go. They didn’t need raincoats and rain pants or umbrellas or boots. Suddenly I felt rather cumbersome.

Outside the rain came down in great sheets from the sky. It pattered on the hood of my raincoat and gathered in glassy globs along the front edge, before letting go and dripping past my nose towards the ground.

Bear, Max and Murdoch gathered around me as we stepped from our driveway to the road. Water beaded on their fur, sparkling as though they had dressed up for the occasion. We stopped on the road and I turned to look the length of it while the dogs ate grass and licked rainwater from the spade-shaped leaves of weeds at the edge of the ditch. I couldn’t really see much farther than twenty feet ahead. It was like trying to look through an opaque curtain.

The rain wasn’t hard-driving, but it fell fast and each drop so close together, one right after another, they seemed to fall in rods directly from the sky to the ground with no breaks in between. But it was a bright rain, the day did not darken with ominous clouds blocking every scrap of light from the hidden sun. The very air shimmered with a grey, silvery light reflected from a thousand drops of falling water. In the distance, vague, dark shapes gave the only indication of trees that marched the length of the road to the trail at the end.

We walked through the warm, heavy, summer rain. My rubber boots squelched over the dark brown, saturated road. Inside my hood, the swishing of my rain pants and arms of my coat were amplified while the sound of the dogs’s feet blended in with the chatter of the rain as it hit the road. I could just make out the squeak of Max’s wheelchair as it rolled along beside me.

The four of us wandered down that road as if we were on a grand adventure. A shared giddiness bounced between us, encircled us, and reflected back from the rain.

The day smelled like spring, the air scrubbed clean by the heavy, fast-falling raindrops and we moved through it as though seeing everything for the first time. On the trail amongst the trees we were sheltered a little by reaching branches packed with leaves. The vibrant greens shivered with the rhythm of raindrops falling, collecting on their surface and then running to the edge and pouring over the side.

Beneath the forest canopy the dogs stopped to drink out of every puddle and ripped mouthfuls of fresh grasses from where they grew along the side of the trail. I wandered slowly along the path which had become soft underfoot, breathing deeply of earthy green and crisp pine scents. For a moment it felt as though the world had orchestrated the day just for us as we moved through the damp air and mingled with the rain-enhanced spirit of the forest.

Bear gets a bed, sort of

About three months after we moved to Thunder Bay, Morgan and I inherited a bunch of furniture from one or our neighbours, a couple who were returning to their native Nova Scotia. Among the bulky furniture they didn’t want to take with them was a double bed. Up until that point Morgan and I had been sleeping on an inflatable air mattress which, though it was fairly comfortable, was a bit like sleeping on a waterbed when one of us rolled over, got out of the bed or into it. The air rumbled around in that thing like a brewing storm. The real bed was a nice change.

Bear appreciated it too. The air mattress sat on a frame that was quite a bit taller than a regular bed frame and made the jump up more challenging for her. When we set up the “new” bed, Bear was ecstatic, leaping onto it and standing in the middle of the mattress, tail swinging wildly from side to side as though claiming it as her own. At the very least she was sure one-third of it belonged to her.

I suppose she would be right in thinking that. Just about every morning we invited Bear onto the bed between us for Bear sandwiches. She would flip onto her back, big floppy feet waving around in the air while we rubbed her belly, hugged her and told her how wonderful she is; mostly fulfilling what I’m sure she felt was her birth right, which made it all the more difficult to turn her away when she stated her belief that we should all be sleeping on the bed together all the time.

Quite often after we tucked her in for the night on the couch and lay reading in bed we would hear the squeak of couch springs followed by the galumph of her feet hitting the floor. A purposeful march of paws on plywood picked out a straight line to our room then stopped abruptly as Bear stood on the threshold staring at us, ears set seriously, squaring her face while her eyes focused almost accusingly on our own.

We told her she was a good girl and should go back to the couch. Usually we’d have to tell her at least twice before she’d drop her head, roll her eyes and turn on her heel with as much attitude as a teenager who’s just been given an earlier curfew. Morgan and I couldn’t help smiling at each other and shaking our heads when the couch creaked again under her weight, followed by a loud floomph as she flopped herself into her spot, then a few grumbles and grunts, as though muttering under her breath the injustice of having to sleep on the couch when clearly she belonged on the bed.

Sometimes during the night, when the house was in darkness, the bedroom door would issue a whispering squeak as it swung slowly open. I knew Bear had nudged it with her nose and I lay listening for the sound of her feet on the wooden floor. After a few seconds’ silence I would hear a tiny clip of the toenails of one foot grazing the floor as Bear took a tentative step into the room. It was different from the regular clip-clopping of her nails when she walked and I imagined her trying to tip her toes up off the ground to walk silently on her pads.

Then the sound of the next foot treading lightly into the room. She continued this slow pace, quietly clipping over the floor and taking forever to tiptoe her way around the bed that filled almost all the space in the tiny room. I lay there beneath the covers, eyes open in the darkness, stifling a laugh.

Then I would feel the weight of her head on the bed beside me, quietly trying to get my attention and coax an invitation to climb under the covers.

If I ignored her, she’d eventually sink to the floor beside me, her front feet rasping forward across the rough, painted surface. The sound was accompanied by a loud exhaling of air which stopped with the clunk of her elbows making contact with the floor, and then was punctuated by a grumble as she settled her head onto her paws.

If it was clear she intended to stay on the cold floor beside me for the night, I would turn to her and tell her to go back to the couch at which point she snapped to her feet, wagging her tail with a thump, whump rhythm as it made contact with first the wall and then the side of the bed. She then thrust her nose towards me in excitement as though she hadn’t heard what I’d said but if I was awake then surely the negotiations could begin. To sweeten the deal she threw in a kiss.

“No Bear,” I would say. “Go sleep on the couch.” Then the heartbreaking silence as her tail stopped wagging and I imagined it hanging limply behind her. But in the next breath her tail would start up again with a renewed enthusiasm and she’d stomp her foot loudly as if to say, ‘oh, you’re kidding right?’

“No Bear, on the couch,” more firmly this time.

The space between my side of the bed and the wall couldn’t have been more than a foot wide, not enough room for Bear to turn around, so with loud clomping steps she backed up the length of the bed, bumping it with a bargey wiggle as she made her best attempt to storm from the room in a huff. She was clearly extra frustrated because she had to walk backwards, which included navigating the corner where she sometimes stopped and just about bent herself in half trying to turn around in the extra fraction of space found there.

I know she was trying to be terribly serious and make a point, but every time this scenario played out I couldn’t help laughing even though I did feel sad for poor, lonely Bear. I would have loved to invite her onto the bed but there just wasn’t enough room for the three of us, considering Bear has no concept of sharing and is the biggest bedhog in the world. Plus, I don’t think Morgan would have taken too kindly to me asking him to sleep on the couch to make room for the dog.

Jekyll or Hyde?

I want Murdoch to be a great dog. I want him to be one of those dogs you can take anywhere, who is welcome in peoples’ homes; one of those dogs you see on the street walking calmly with its owner, a deep connection between them that makes having a dog look like a really good idea. I want him to be able to live in our home without fear of him eating a cat.

I tell Morgan these things and he looks at me like I have just told him I taught myself how to fly. Sometimes he laughs as though I made a joke. We agree Murdoch is no Bear. I know he never will be, no dog could of course, but I feel there is hope for him to be, if not a great dog, at least a pretty good one.

I didn’t always feel this way, it took me a good year and a half to actually believe it myself, just long enough for him to turn two and start kind of listening. Over the last eight months Murdoch has improved exponentially in the “I’m a dog, not a demon” category, though he still has a long way to go.

Some of my best moments with him are when we are walking together, just the two of us. We have these parcels of time where the world becomes about just him and me. There’s no one around and we saunter casually together down the driveway, emerge from the trees, turn left towards the dead end and see the open road narrow into the trail which disappears amongst a clamour of green, winding its way to the mountains and unknown adventure. At that moment we are connected to each other and every point on the planet and great possibility.

On a clear sunny day, the rich blue of the sky is an endless field beckoning us, the dirt road glows a bleached tan against the deep, fresh greens of trees and long grass lining the road. We move methodically through warm air heated by the bright sun; it laps against my skin and gently ruffles Murdoch’s fur. It’s a lazy kind of day and makes me want to walk slower, savour the moment. Something inside, a tiny voice I ignore, whispers evil truths: “This won’t last.”

Murdoch reminds me of a horse. His long, skinny legs trot a relaxed rhythm over the gravel. His tail hangs casually behind him and his back end, looking wider than it is because of his wild hair, sways from side to side, sending a wave of motion up his spine I can track all the way to his shoulders.

Something intangible has clicked into place between us and I feel a swell of affection for him in the quiet, wholeness of the day. In the next moment, my stomach flips and the spell is broken.

I am hyper-aware when I’m with Murdoch. I need to think two or three steps ahead at all times. I am constantly watching and listening for anything that might attract Murdoch’s attention so maybe I can distract him before he knows what’s happening and avoid catastrophe.

I hear the zhoom of a car then a change in pitch of an engine and the distinctive crunch of tires over gravel that tells me the car is slowing down and most likely turning on to our road. I look over my shoulder and see a flash of sun off the windshield and a plume of dust rising behind it.

I don’t panic. Dogs can sense that kind of thing. I try and stay calm, take a firmer hold of Murdoch’s leash and direct him to the side of the road. I keep walking as though nothing out of the ordinary is going on and hope he follows my lead, but he has seen the car now and eagerly spins around to face it, his body stiff. The leash becomes taut as I dig my toes into the dirt and pull Murdoch along behind me. I try in vain to keep to the same pace and tell Murdoch to leave it and never mind.

Finally, I am forced to stop walking and with two hands gripping the leash I use my entire body to haul Murdoch back to stand beside me. I stuff a handful of treats under his nose to keep his attention, but it’s already gone. His eyes are trained exclusively on the approaching car and I am forced to abandon all attempts to snap him out of this trance-like state. All I can do now is hold on with everything I have as he launches himself towards the passing car. His barks sound frustrated and angry as his front legs come up off the ground like a rearing horse.

Sometimes he manages an extra surge of energy and if I’m not ready for it he yanks me off my feet and drags me behind him a short way as if I am some annoyance to be shaken off and discarded on the side of the road. I feel like a delinquent dog owner. Only once the car is gone does Murdoch return to his senses, his eyes refocus on the world as a whole and he looks at me as if to ask why I am sprawled on the ground.

Some of my worst moments with Murdoch are when we are walking together. Moments like this, when his brain shuts off and he transforms into a crazed lunatic, make me think Morgan is right to laugh when I talk of Murdoch being a great dog some day. It’s hard to be his champion when he gives in so easily to his multiple personalities and becomes like Jekyll and Hyde. Still, I do believe he wants to be good, maybe I have to believe it, but sometimes it’s like he just can’t help himself.

A place for Max

I took Murdoch for a walk the day after Max died. I awoke that morning with my heart torn into a million ragged pieces. The hole in my chest where it used to sit, ached against a flood of sorrow. Max’s spot in the entryway was so empty and huge it dwarfed everything. Bear and Murdoch seemed smaller somehow, I felt tiny. The entire house was engulfed by his absence.

I didn’t quite know what to do with myself. For the last year Max filled a huge portion of my time. His morning routine alone took half an hour. It was usually a good 40 minutes before I could even start thinking about breakfast for myself. That first morning the dogs were taken care of in less than ten minutes. It felt weird.

Everything felt weird, like I was moving through a dream. When Murdoch and I headed down the road that day, even the outside world seemed removed from reality. We plodded along as though encased in a bubble to the walking trail at the end of our road.

It had been a long time since Max walked the trail. Over the past year he had started slowing down. At first he would go to where the trail began to track slightly uphill before stopping and giving me a pointed look that he was ready to turn around. For a while he walked to the end of the road, turning back just where the trail began, but in the past four months, Max spent most of his time wandering between our house and the neighbours’ before tiring and returning home for a nap.

Murdoch and I continued up the trail, heading for the clear, open space where the ticks are less prevalent and he can run free and chase a stick. When we reach the spot. I pause to look for a stick and am about to unhook Murdoch from his leash when I feel a surge to keep going.

I veer to the left of the fork in the trail and continue walking over flattened yellow grasses that have spent the winter dried out and crushed beneath a blanket of snow. Murdoch happily bounces along beside me. In the distance I can hear a chorus of chirping frogs which gets louder as the trail winds its way closer to the swampy area in the midst of this re-growing forest.

The sky overhead is a brilliant silver, light and dark hues give the clouds a rich texture, like ripples in the sand beneath the edge of a lapping lake. It is as though the clouds are alive and teasing the wind that flows playfully over the ground and through the trees.

I pick my way around the edge of a patch of rich, black mud. The tangle of bleached grasses I step on give way a bit as the soft mud shifts underfoot. Murdoch tromps through the middle of the swath of muck where puddles gather in deep grooves left behind by the fat tires of ATVs. I can hear the schloomp of the mud as it releases each of his feet in turn and the squelch as it oozes between his toes again.

The land is open here. The swamp is just thirty feet away behind a field of flattened, dried out white grasses and reeds, it is more a pond in the early spring than a thick swamp. I am compelled to stop. A couple of pine trees grow from the middle of the water at strange angles. One looks like it almost fell over at one time, then managed to stop itself and continue growing straight up towards the sky. Its spine curves precariously out over the tiny patch of ground it has claimed in the middle of the pond, and looks like it’s stuck in a permanent wind storm.

Through the grasses that stand tall near the swamp I catch glimpses of the water, it sparkles silver-black beneath the overcast sky and ripples with the wind. The peeping of the frogs fills the air. I can hear the quack and splash of ducks. Mountains etched out in a semi-circle against the sky in the near distance make this place feel cozy and familiar, like home. A warmish spring breeze swirls lazily around me and sets the still standing reeds swaying. Murdoch sits beside me and we are quiet together, watching and listening.

A feeling of peace wells up inside me as I picture Max here. I can see him in the grasses, running free, I can feel him riding the swirling wind. This is his spot, I am sure of it. It’s a place he would have loved.

The bubble that encased me all morning is dissolving, my heart slowly begins to stitch itself back together, and I breathe deeply of the wind that carries the sounds and smells of life, it fills me right to my toes. I can feel Max here, he’s free and happy. It makes me smile, a genuine smile.

This is the spot I think about now when I miss Max. I see it as it was on that day, vibrant with awakening life after a winter slumber; the cheery symphony of the frogs, the richness of the silver clouds, the friendly hug of the swirling wind, the stark whiteness of the dried grasses, the ripple of the water, the splashing of the ducks and the determination of that tree. Life. It was as though that moment, that place, was created just for Max.

Goodbye my sweet Max

                                                1995? - 2010

Things I’ll miss:

Wrapping my arms around his thick neck in a big bear hug and burying my face in his great mane.

The way he melted hearts with a look and quietly, just by being there, made everyone feel at ease, important, and loved.

Our slow strolls down the road, just Max and me, his lion-like front paws striding out with purpose while his wheels squeaked and crunched over gravel. He always walked tall, ears pointed skyward, nose at the ready, before veering sharply left or right, without notice, to revel in whatever smell reeled him in.

Kissing the top of his wide black nose, then using my knuckles to rub his snout vigourously, while he pushed back against the pressure and closed his eyes in contentment.

The black freckles on top of his right front paw.

His blatant refusal to mope about anything.

The way he curled his lips when Murdoch came within three feet of him. It made him look terribly fearsome, even with hardly any teeth, but I always laughed because I knew Max didn’t have a mean bone in his body. Well, maybe one but it had Murdoch’s name etched on it.

Watching him trundle down the road on his own in his wheelchair just being a dog.

Hearing Morgan’s voice call enthusiastically, “Hello, Maxwell!” when he walked past Max’s bed. Each time I imagined Max staring back wide-eyed, happy to be noticed.

The way his coat changed colour depending on the weather. On clear sunny days his fur shone the creamy caramel of a melting ice cream sundae. When it was overcast the black markings that outlined his features became darker, making his eyes more intense, his face more striking. After the rain when tree trunks were dark grey, almost black, and the leaves brighter green and the road a rich chocolate brown, he glowed a deep warm copper as though lit from within.

His enthusiasm for life.

The way his tall, velvety ears, combined with his long, regal nose and a pair of searching brown eyes gave Max a permanently pensive look.

The weight of his head pushed against my leg in greeting or just because.

His eager little face staring at me first thing in the morning or when I came home from work, instantly energized, with anticipation pouring off him because he knew we were going out soon.

Listening to long, deep breaths fill every corner of his lungs as he slipped into an all-encompassing, contented sleep in the quiet of the evening.

Watching him plow, almost obliviously, through everything in his path to get to something he wanted. It was the greatest feeling in the world when that something was me.

The way he made me forget about a bad day just by looking into his eyes. He reminded me constantly to live for this moment, right now, to be thankful for everything I have, and to hold kindness and compassion in my heart even when it seems the entire world is against me.

Mostly, I’ll just miss his big, beautiful spirit in my life. I don’t think I’ll ever meet anyone like him again - of any species.

Rest in peace my beautiful boy.