3.15.13 The Ides of March in One Small New England Town

Fall Over Friday it is today, workweek ended and time for replenishment. And too, The Ides of March today, cool and crisp here, the wind worthy of any New England springtime characterization.

The sun is just cresting The Mount Holyoke Range, vast light suddenly spilling across the aged conservation land by our side.

I think of three years ago, when the hill was plowed for the first time in years, and I looked out one morning to discover people wandering about, poking at the earth, and seeking relics. Curious, I went out to speak to an older man who had crossed the field the entire day, looking through the furrowed soil. In reply, he extended his hand to reveal an arrowhead made of a rock found only in New York. We then both stood, quiet, imagining someone, most probably in the 1500s,traveling on foot or horse to New York and back, had lived in this field in a Native American encampment, and one day dropped this arrowhead, to be found hundreds of years later, at this moment.

Daily there are hordes of returning birds from migration , a grand and endless reunion, moving through or moving in, Redwing Blackbirds scouting for territories, the Blue Bird families back once again, to hopefully locate the new birdhouse we’ve put out for their brood.

The neighborhood streams are swollen and rushing, cleansing the fall and winter’s debris, clearing the way for freshwater consumption by all the wildlife surrounding.

The conservation field next door is now naked of snow, making it once more inaccessible, due to tick population. That is as it is,  and so ,as any wise person does these days, we venture into grasses only when covered fully by snow, and spend the warm months admiring them from afar, never forgetting that the ticks are all SICK because humans shifted the balance and health of the environment and made this so.

The daffodils by the house are approaching their bloom, the gardens and trees awakening, the Maple sap run slowing to a halt as intermittent warmer days catch every living thing off guard.

In the mornings, Shiva Louisa Latrine, 15, for the most part sightless and hearingless, is popped out on her rope. She stands, surveying her domain with more sensory tools than in youth- relishing the feel of wind in her thick fur, lifting her nose to the scents barreling by.

 Last fall when an enormous adolescent bear stood in front of the living room window and gazed in, their beautiful eyes two feet from mine, innocent, broad furred back, long elegant snout, short stocky young legs, Shiva smelled and howled in objection.

Now,  I unclasp her, rendering her happily leashless. I am her shepherd, as she meanders across the yard, snow all but gone, her elated spring inventory done with great and slow delight- the snuffling, the periodic pulling of earth with old claws, the cocking of the sweet furred head.

We go on adventures in the car, she approaching the door to be lifted, back end now, into her place. Standing between the seats on a console with glued materials to keep dog claws from the erroneous slip, she catches the scent of a dog adventure by noticing that the pattern of roads taken differs than the customary driving my beloved to work, or driving us to food shop, or the predicable road to the library, all simplified greatly since offspring are grown and living elsewhere.

With anticipation begins a quiet muh muh muhhhing by my side as I bring the car to rest at some delectable-to-old-dog place, and lift her out. Shaking off a week’s worth of lying about all day long, she sets up a good pace worthy of any exploration, aware that, as her official shepherd, I will foresee any obstacles and alert her to alternate pathways. One touch of my leg on her side, one slide of my hand on her back, with the smallest pressure, and akin to the communication while riding a horse, she shifts her choice of direction, always trusting I am there to guard while she delightedly makes her way in a curious new place.

When on leash, there is a small tug prior to a curb, and another to signal a step down, so with this signal she lowers her lovely whitened nose and finds the places, with care, where the terrain does change.

She stands in the wind and raises her face with such sensorial delight. She turns to detect what she may as the wind blows by and brings her news from places I can only dream of. She wanders at will, snuffling and investigating, until finally I call it quits, releashing her loveliness, to head back to the car.

She makes a great and imperious show of resisting, pulling on her collar with reticence, until I laugh, embracing her, and then insist and get her in the car.

Shiva has the gift of a lovely mini-Husky body, born years ago in Mississippi, until one of my kids found her and two siblings, at 4 weeks, of age,  next to a dumpster. People are often alarmed at this, the young age, the fur a thick crust filled with living insects, but I tell them I am imagining someone that was not having an easy time of it, that  lacked resources, certainly adequate dog food, money to neuter, and did the best they could, at least bringing three small beings somewhere that gave them a passing chance. Which, it turns out, it did.

Locating homes for two, my offspring brought home the big surprise of a red mini-Husky, scarcely bigger than two hands, certain she was part Timber Wolf. But then, youth necessitates these convictions. Timber Wolf she was not; Mini-Husk she was, born with one and a half bright blue eyes, a black mask that has wandered down her back with age. And so, she has been one with us.

Younger, with sight, she lunged at pant legs and babies. With less sight, she is tempered, and enjoys all young people. With gratification, she walks through Dave’s Soda and Pet Food, stiffly meeting, then walking past the toughest Pitty boy dogs, who, sensing even a very old, blind alpha, go belly up, to the shocked frustration of their big boy people. She struts after such an encounter, a bounce to her old step, satisfied in her offhand, royal manner, as we finish up our field trip and make our way back home.

One more luscious day on the foothills of one of earths’ age-old ranges.