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.
