A Deep Understanding
Our closest neighbors in the mountain phase of the Colorado trip were a newlywed couple and a big black pup. The couple stayed secluded, but the big black pup pranced about, eager to be seen and heard day and night. He had yet to realize in his youthful exuberance that being a watchdog for a honeymoon cabin is a lonely assignment.
Dogs were at mind. Before leaving home, my doctor pal bought a Cavalier King Charles spaniel to share a big apartment in Angelo in the Christian Village. Seems the dog's breed's name outclassed his behavior and his welcome to the village. The good doctor claimed the dog ate the stuffing in a goosedown feather pillow, defying pedigree incrimination or justifying tracing his DNA.
Further, beyond the experience or understanding of a layman's interest in canine feather-eating, Doc verbally traced the feathers through the nine-pound dog's alimentary canal at a weekly lunch meeting in an Angelo dining room, including detailed analysis of the quills and plumage in the fecal matter. Did such a remarkable and audible job that people at the table next to ours decided to move to the player's lounge to lunch on steamed hotdogs and canned beef chili.
The vacationing pup, however, showed no symptoms of eating down feathers. He displayed more aptitude at dragging his master's rubber fishing boots off the front porch of the cabin down onto the road than eating the pillows on the porch swing.
Not wishing to show disapproval and chance ruining the couple's celebration, I put on a big act of being delighted to share the grounds and the environment with the black pup. Petted him and called him "Sugar." At the same time, under my breath, I warned him not expect rewards for marking all four of my car tires in canine code, or to win approval for defecating on and around the bird feeder in the back yard.
No wonder the pup was invigorated and excited by the outdoors. I don't know where he was from, but the slight frost and wisps of fog floating in and over the valley of mornings, breaking into a special light to illuminate the aspen's gold leaves, sent charges of energy to my desert mind and body.
Morning walks changed from the routine of the lowlands to bounding off to the rushing stream to kick loose rocks off the low bluffs and watch them roll and tumble in the swift water. Affected by the pup's behavior, no doubt, I found myself pulling tree limbs over to smell the sharp fragrance of pine needles and rubbing the sap off my hands on my pant leg with no thought of the stain.
One morning, an English couple staying downstream at a hotel stopped to ask directions to a foot bridge across the river. Jolly people, burned by the unaccustomed mountain sunshine so different from their foggy homeland, they understood — but barely — my drawl.
As is the custom between the “Yanks" and the “Brits," there had to be a joke common to our historic relations. So to the question: "Where are the cowboys and Indians?" I replied, "We always, first thing, drive the good people out of our country."
Unsure whether they understood my Southern Inland accent, I quoted a book I was reading, explaining that the Ute Indian nation claimed all this country in Colorado for centuries from the mineral springs downriver to all the mountains and passes down to the lowland, miles in grand size. Laid the tale on in a big way, how after exploration and the big movement west, we (the white eyes) couldn't spare the Utes (redskins) so much space. Further, we needed lots of land to plant the low country and mine the mountains to make big bags of money, or "bags of wampum" is what we told our red brothers.
Those British guys speak 26 or maybe 36 different dialects. However, have you ever noticed how they sort of roll the word "tut" into a gravely sound with a lot of "r's"? They make the sound when puzzled, or perhaps doubtful of the story. Saw the couple once more at the hotel, but they seemed too occupied reading brochures to look my way.
The pup became lonesome. Every morning he waited for an invitation to go for a walk. Upstream, bear tracks spotted a shallow trout run on the river. I figured if a pup jumped a cub or the mother, I wanted the bears to understand that I was a pacifist not associated with guard or hunting dogs, so I declined to take him along even for short excursions.
All that was left of summer was one night of a dramatic thunder and lightning storm. Heard the pup howl once, I think, in the pitch of rumbling thunder crashing in the canyons. For such a short amount of time, he and I developed a deep understanding.
Dogs were at mind. Before leaving home, my doctor pal bought a Cavalier King Charles spaniel to share a big apartment in Angelo in the Christian Village. Seems the dog's breed's name outclassed his behavior and his welcome to the village. The good doctor claimed the dog ate the stuffing in a goosedown feather pillow, defying pedigree incrimination or justifying tracing his DNA.
Further, beyond the experience or understanding of a layman's interest in canine feather-eating, Doc verbally traced the feathers through the nine-pound dog's alimentary canal at a weekly lunch meeting in an Angelo dining room, including detailed analysis of the quills and plumage in the fecal matter. Did such a remarkable and audible job that people at the table next to ours decided to move to the player's lounge to lunch on steamed hotdogs and canned beef chili.
The vacationing pup, however, showed no symptoms of eating down feathers. He displayed more aptitude at dragging his master's rubber fishing boots off the front porch of the cabin down onto the road than eating the pillows on the porch swing.
Not wishing to show disapproval and chance ruining the couple's celebration, I put on a big act of being delighted to share the grounds and the environment with the black pup. Petted him and called him "Sugar." At the same time, under my breath, I warned him not expect rewards for marking all four of my car tires in canine code, or to win approval for defecating on and around the bird feeder in the back yard.
No wonder the pup was invigorated and excited by the outdoors. I don't know where he was from, but the slight frost and wisps of fog floating in and over the valley of mornings, breaking into a special light to illuminate the aspen's gold leaves, sent charges of energy to my desert mind and body.
Morning walks changed from the routine of the lowlands to bounding off to the rushing stream to kick loose rocks off the low bluffs and watch them roll and tumble in the swift water. Affected by the pup's behavior, no doubt, I found myself pulling tree limbs over to smell the sharp fragrance of pine needles and rubbing the sap off my hands on my pant leg with no thought of the stain.
One morning, an English couple staying downstream at a hotel stopped to ask directions to a foot bridge across the river. Jolly people, burned by the unaccustomed mountain sunshine so different from their foggy homeland, they understood — but barely — my drawl.
As is the custom between the “Yanks" and the “Brits," there had to be a joke common to our historic relations. So to the question: "Where are the cowboys and Indians?" I replied, "We always, first thing, drive the good people out of our country."
Unsure whether they understood my Southern Inland accent, I quoted a book I was reading, explaining that the Ute Indian nation claimed all this country in Colorado for centuries from the mineral springs downriver to all the mountains and passes down to the lowland, miles in grand size. Laid the tale on in a big way, how after exploration and the big movement west, we (the white eyes) couldn't spare the Utes (redskins) so much space. Further, we needed lots of land to plant the low country and mine the mountains to make big bags of money, or "bags of wampum" is what we told our red brothers.
Those British guys speak 26 or maybe 36 different dialects. However, have you ever noticed how they sort of roll the word "tut" into a gravely sound with a lot of "r's"? They make the sound when puzzled, or perhaps doubtful of the story. Saw the couple once more at the hotel, but they seemed too occupied reading brochures to look my way.
The pup became lonesome. Every morning he waited for an invitation to go for a walk. Upstream, bear tracks spotted a shallow trout run on the river. I figured if a pup jumped a cub or the mother, I wanted the bears to understand that I was a pacifist not associated with guard or hunting dogs, so I declined to take him along even for short excursions.
All that was left of summer was one night of a dramatic thunder and lightning storm. Heard the pup howl once, I think, in the pitch of rumbling thunder crashing in the canyons. For such a short amount of time, he and I developed a deep understanding.
posted by George Noelke at 9:48 PM
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