Saturday was a brisk and cold
New England day, wind wrapping round our home by the range, the same wind
slipping down the conservation fields into the ravines and veering through
outwaters of ducks and geese and coyote and turtle, breakneck speed down to the
old and powerful Connecticut River.
In early spring evening, I
woke Shiva from her 15 year old slumber upon our low bed, and urged her to come
out, come out for a drive and a walk. Increasingly, she has less interest, and
as is important with older humans who begin to pull inward at times, at times
exhibiting less of an urge to go forth and mix it up in the world, so too sweet
old dogs need at times urging to get someplace other than house and yard a
couple of times a day. So down the stairs her old, almost blind self came, allowed me to slip on her
collar, took the hint, and out we went toward the car.
I opened the door, at
which point she moved to leap her front
legs up while I lifted the back, and settled her into the back. Up the drive,
and down the mountain we went, the sun already moving briskly in its path, or
rather the earth, which being human, we tend to forget.
Down at the bottom of the
hill, as the Connecticut spread out before us, were two deer down from the
woods, relishing the rich greenery of the field. Farther down, as we followed twists and turns
and hills and dales, were a pair of Redwing Hawks twirling far up above us,
their courtship aswirl with blazes of red and then reflective beautiful white
feathered breasts, all caught up in their tumult.
Up into a small college town,
then through and back down another hill, we finally arrived at the small pond,
inching through students and crossing the small metal bridge. The path familiar
to her, she began to peer about, and restlessly waiting for the back door to
open; for the lift of sweet old body onto solid ground, and the stroll to
begin.
Out on the pond I spotted the
white Gander who has been a resident of
the pond for years, a beautiful large goose who one day discovered their wing feathers
let go by their farmer just enough to somehow take flight, and take flight they
did…somehow finding their perfect home, it seems, a “Make Way For Ducklings”
story of safe pond free of fox and coyote due to its proximity to studetns
strolling near and far, the surrounding buildings a helpful foil to predators.
Last year I walked here, and
there was the Gander, up on the lawn with a group of Canadians, the Gander
carefully scrutinizing every passerby, protecting their temporary flock as they
all aerated the lawns and fertilized the grounds. In the winter, the Canadian
Geese have flown, and the Gander stays, at times kept company by ducks to
protect, and at times fed in the cold by the college.
Today there was the Gander,
proudly by the side of a female Candian,and he was doing his hard work to keep
the three unattached males away, as he and his beloved wandered the pond,
nibbling and cuddling and staying close together. I do wonder how this will be,
as Canadians tend to mate for life, and this is the first I have seen him with
partner. But a few years ago, down farther on the Connecticut, by Northampton,
there was a couple that lived by the bridge, biracial or biavian, one huge grey
goose, one Canadian, and we all watched them with delight for months.
There are other Geese couples
on the pond, I imgine settling in to raise a brood, in such a safe, clean home
for the summer, safe enough humans and tethered dogs passing by now and then,
the rich stream rushing through.
Later in the spring the days
will warm, the deep silt beneath the waters will soften and the legions of
turtles will awaken, to be seen sunning themselves on the fallen trees
extending out from the banks. The eels will begin to come up the eel ladder
into the pond, undetected by humans, and make their elegant way up the stream
to their own laying areas.
Overhead one enormous Broad
Wing Hawk is circling, lazily. Known to be more territorial than most, they may
be announcing and establishing their own territory, as the sun does sink lower,
and we pass over the eel ladder bridge, and round the last side of pond before
the walk is done.
Old willows are coming into
blossom, one of my favorite parts of spring, their endless fronds yellow with
new leaf and flower, swaying and dancing with any small breeze. Today there is
a chorus of Starling atop the Willows , readying for bedtime, chipping and
chirping and tweeting and clipping and singing to themselves and each other,
far atop the trees, such a cacaphony of warm, well fed nattering as we slowly
pass them by.
Shiva has successfully peed
upon every place every dog has ever urinated upon, and , fully satisfied with
her dominance, we slowly make our way back to the car, she now tired, and happy
to be carefully lifted into the back.
At home, I work down her old
spine, touching base with irritated discs and sore knees and ankles and
shoulders, slipping her a pellet of homeopathic Arnica, holding her muzzle
gently and murmuring the benefits for after a long old-dog-walk, pre-empting
stiff soreness the next day.
She takes her freshly cooked
turkey and her dry good with great relish, and settles on the bed to dip deep
into slumber, her snuffled old snoring music to us all.
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