Games in the woods

In the woods there are pockets of warm air hovering in the shadows not too far from where bright beams of sunlight penetrate the leafy canopy. We walk into them unexpectedly and it is like swimming into warm pools of water suspended in a cold lake.

The day is hot. In summer we walk before the sun reaches its apex for the day and try to avoid the hours on either side of it when the sun blares down with all its power and the air is still but for gentle currents stirring the tree tops lethargically.

The heat is a surprise as we walk out the door. It holds a heaviness at its edges that speaks of hotter days to come, but even now in the shade of the woods the air is thickened by the sun, the saturated air from beyond the woods seeping in from the edges to mix with the shade, and when a cooler breeze blows as though created somewhere in the middle of the forest in the darkest places between the trees, we stop our bounding run through the woods and let it find us, swirl around us like a current in a river around rocks in its path.

It is the seventh day of summer and already we have started a fire in our woodstove three times. But it rained off and on over the course of a week, torrentially. The sky was obliterated by it; there was thunder and dampness and cold nights. We are told, in spots, there is still frost in the ground. So, we had fires in the afternoons to chase away the damp that penetrates everything, makes your very spirit cold. The dogs, of course, thought we were nuts.

Today, though, it is hot and we are running through the woods. I am chasing Murdoch because I do not trust him. We left the house and headed up the trail in our woods together, he and Molly and I, but part way up I could see his distraction taking hold. His nose pointed skyward with purpose, his eyes partially closed, concentrating on the smells carried on the wind and he marched onward with more determination.

The undergrowth has grown thick and full with all the rain and the dogs can turn a corner and disappear in the blink of an eye. It has happened more often recently with Murdoch taking off for stretches of time leaving me to call his name into the green wall of the leading edge of the new growth forest behind our woods, and Molly to jab me in the leg repeatedly with a stick. A couple of times, Molly has disappeared with him.

So, today as I watch Murdoch’s demeanour change, I quicken my pace to keep him within view, until we are all running through the woods and I hope the dogs think it is a game, fun enough to distract them from anything else, like whatever it is Murdoch smells in the great expanse of the woods or the intriguing noises of heavy machinery and grumbling compressors and banging and clanging coming from the direction of our neighbours’ place where a new home is being built.

The dogs leap over downed trees and I leap over the expanses in between, my momentum carrying me from log to log and it is a game for me too as the tread of my shoe grips the bark of one tree and then the next and the next and I wonder how far I can go before my feet miss and I crash to the ground.

But I stop before that happens, to enjoy the cool breeze pushing through the trees. And then we head for the farthest corner of the woods, away from the noises of building and the smells of whatever it is that always leads Murdoch astray, and we find sticks and the dogs run after them until they are tired enough to walk back with me through the woods.

We walk through dappled sunlight and those unexpected pockets of warm air amidst shady coolness and we head to Bear’s puddle, full with rainwater and grown around with the bright green leaves of forest plants. The dogs stop for a drink before following our trail back to the house where they spread out on the floor to cool down and I watch the clouds close in overhead, blue sky pinched out by flat greyness, sunlight diffused into uniformity and a light rain begins to fall, shushing through the trees, filling the air with a smell that is electric and sweet as though sparks from the sun have been doused with sugar water.

There is cool air coming in at the windows again and the day has completely changed and I think I can exchange my glass of water for a warm cup of tea.

Later, when the sun comes out again, the dogs stare at me meaningfully, clearly having decided they have never been more bored in all their lives.

On the trail again

 

 

 

Nothing to see here

 

There is a kerfuffle in the bathroom. The muted gong of the cast iron tub, the click of tiny claws against wood and the porcelain tub coating. I think I can hear static crackle off the ends of fine hairs. There is the sound of scampering feet spinning in a circle and the squeak of the wooden lid against the wooden box that sits beside the tub.

I tiptoe towards the door, peek around the corner to see a white paw dart over the lip of the tub and swipe at Cleo, who sprawls lazily on the box, her favourite spot by the large window looking out to the garden where birds can be watched and rabbits regarded.

Cleo reaches out her own white paw, cocking her head, and swipes back. Fine fibres of hair are released into the sunbeam that angles across the tub, hang there for a moment and then float effortlessly away, disappearing in the shadows.

I attempt to move silently, to get my camera and return. But they are on to me. The sounds stop, and when I return to the doorway I am greeted by two pairs of wide accusing eyes. I have interrupted or disturbed or discovered something I wasn’t supposed to know.

The fun is over. Chestnut leaps casually from the tub as though he was bored with this game anyway, and Cleo takes one last swipe before settling in for the afternoon on top of the wooden box, turning her head away, eyes half-closed, denying everything.

Winter spring

 

I awoke to snow drifting lazily and steadily past the window. Outside, beyond white, still winter-skeletal poplar and birch branches, the sky matched the colour of the snow almost exactly and for a moment as I first opened my eyes to see this white on white on white world, I thought perhaps I was dreaming.

But somehow this May snowfall seemed perfectly normal, perfectly timed, as though a farewell of sorts to this winter that has stretched it’s cold, pointing fingers into spring.

The snowflakes, fat and gentle and full of whimsy, rested easily on branches, gathering in little clusters, coating the evergreens once again in white, and because the snow has been receding and there have been days that seemed very much like spring, days with strong sunshine and the sound of burbling waters and the smell of wet earth and fresh buds and melting snow, it all seemed very dreamlike, even as I stumbled down the stairs to the kitchen.

It is not unexpected, this snow that falls throughout the morning, at one point sounding like rain on the roof, it is the way spring has gone. Snow falls one day to cover a field in white to melt again the next day to be covered once again the day after that.

So we revel in it. We laugh to see the snowflakes falling again, and beneath a hot sun on another day we are amazed to see the ground as though we thought we never would, the dried leaves from last season, emerging flattened and damp, the water running freely along our driveway, across the stones of our path, and right there beside this new, busy river, a snowbank still feet deep.

Spring scavenge

 

I yell Murdoch’s name until my throat hurts and then I look about me and wish the snow was gone so I could dig out a rock from the dirt trail and throw it at him. Not to hit him of course, I don’t even think I could throw a rock that far, but just so it lands in the water with a splash or on the piece of land where he’s standing, with a thunk, just to break his concentration, get his attention.

Instead I scoop up a handful of slushy, half-melted, snow and haphazardly fashion it into a ball of sorts and fling it in his direction. It hits a tree and disintegrates and I angrily yell his name again, trying to be heard over the rushing water. He completely ignores me, working busily at eating the dead thing he found on this little island in the growing pond at the end of our road.

This is our second walk of the day. That morning Murdoch, Molly and I walked the familiar trail through our woods, investigating the newly fallen trees, snapped off under the weight of the heavy wet snow that piled and piled onto branches a few days before. We wound our way along the usual path, trying to stay on the packed snow we have worked on all winter, still somewhat stable in the warmer temperatures while the untouched snow just off the trail threatened to swallow us up.

Later, when the sun came out, we went for another walk down the road, clear of snow and dry for once. The wind blew in our faces carrying the bite of lingering winter even as the sun warmed everything.

When we reached the trail, blinding white with snow, I decided we would just walk up to the first set of downed trees, which I could see from the trailhead as a dark mass not too far along the path. The dogs bounded ahead and Murdoch, as I had expected, veered off the trail into the woods towards the beaver dam. But the water was flowing and the solid trail he had followed in the winter to dig holes around where I imagined the den was and where he smelled interesting things, had melted away, so I thought he would have to content himself with scouring the ground amidst the trees on shore.

Molly and I continued on without him. I called to him periodically, thinking he would get bored and join us, but as we approached the downed trees the trail behind us remained empty and I had a thought about Murdoch plunging into the icy cold water and running into a beaver. Molly and I turned back and headed to the spot where we had last seen him.

I am annoyed when I find him way out on this tiny piece of land in the middle of the pond, and I scan the surrounding area to see what path he took. He is dry, so he didn’t swim there. It is obvious he is eating something the way his body moves with a tense frenzy. I call to him, but he ignores me.

I clamber off the trail in through the broken trees, snapping dried branches in my hands as I slip between spindly trunks and brittle brush, blinking madly, trying to not get poked in the eye. To my right is the stand of towering dead pine trees, all brown and sad looking, drowned by the rising waters that used to run in an orderly trickle through this area, winding around great marshy stretches of swaying grasses way down below the line of the forest. But everything is drowned here now that the beavers have moved in.

The trunks of the dead pine trees disappear into rushing water, navigating its way from melting banks of snow into puddles and along the trail, down a small grade in the land to where it brims over the edge of the beaver dam and swirls around the mound of sticks that is their den.

Molly follows every move I make, stepping on my heels as she sometimes does. We maneuver our way through areas of knee-deep snow to the cleared ground around the bases of trees. There is a part of me determined to pick a path out over the dam to where Murdoch stands. He managed it, I think, maybe I can too. But I know this is ludicrous and unsafe and I have to think of Molly, because she would follow me and I’m not sure how nimble footed she is around water. The snow keeps giving way beneath my feet to unknown ground beneath and I decide I can’t go any further.

I stand in frustration and watch Murdoch and yell at him as he pulls and rips at the hide of some creature. I think it might have been a rabbit, but then it catches the light a different way and I wonder if perhaps it was a fox. And I wonder how its body ended up on that tiny spit of land surrounded by moving water. It must have been there all winter, ending up there when the world was frozen beneath several feet of snow.

I can’t physically drag Murdoch away from this place, and he definitely isn’t going to leave voluntarily, but I refuse to stand here and watch him gorge on some dead thing so I turn angrily and I scramble back to the trail with Molly and storm off towards home. I walk quickly and determinedly back up the road as Molly bounces along beside me with a stick in her mouth trying to entice me to play with her, which I do

At home Molly and I play and chop firewood and clean up the yard as things lost mid-winter begin to emerge from the receding snow. There is no sign of Murdoch. It is not until another half hour has passed and I am on the phone, standing beside one of the tall, narrow windows that line our stairs to the second floor, that I see him sauntering casually along the road towards home.

I dash down to the front door and call him and he gallops up the driveway, panting with a self-satisfied grin on his face. I leave him in the entryway while I finish my phone conversation, so it isn’t until a while later that I realize he stinks. It is that lovely mix of rotting flesh and wet earth and over-ripeness. I think he must have rolled in what he ate, but I don’t see any evidence of that. He has eaten dead things before and never smelled like this. It is as though the stench is just coming right through his skin.

I grab a basin of hot water and the face cloth I reserve for the dogs and sloosh water all over his face and down his neck. I squeeze a tiny drop of herbal shampoo onto my finger, lather it up a little and then rub it into Murdoch’s cheeks and under his chin and along his mouth and down his neck. He sits with his mouth clamped shut, enduring it. He tries to get up and leave a few times but I make him come back and sit, which he does reluctantly.

The smell does not seem to improve, so I go through the whole process again and then I towel him off. It is only mildly better and Murdoch is exiled to the entryway for the rest of the night but I am sure I can smell it on myself. I get whiffs every now and then and I wash my hands and then I wash them again, and then I change my clothes and Morgan looks at me like I am going crazy, which, because Murdoch’s involved, I think I probably am. Mostly I am just mad that my dog smells so bad I don't even want to touch him.

Murdoch sulks in his kennel because he is not allowed to leave the entryway and there is food being prepared in the kitchen. I so wish he was able to put two and two together and understand why he's in trouble. But I know in his mind he had the greatest day ever and, given the chance, he would do it all over again tomorrow which, I realize with a sinking heart, is truly a possibility.