Old Dogs

We've had a pretty decent winter so far: not too cold, but with enough snowfall to get our attention. In this part of the world we are naturally suspicious of winters that are too mild because we know that no nice weather ever goes unpunished.

Winter is a time when a person had best take advantage
of whatever morsels Mother Nature sees fit to bestow. This is
why, whenever the temperatures moderate and the wind chill is
at least somewhat survivable, I take our dogs out for a walk.
Our dogs' names are Copper and Curly. They are
litter mates, although you'd never guess it: a hybrid of
German Short Hair and Springer Spaniel, each closely
resembles one parent but not the other. Copper is robust and
short-haired, while Curly possesses a humbler build and has
the floppy ears and long, curly hair of a Spaniel.

I often refer to them as "ornamental dogs", although
that isn't quite true. They bark whenever someone pulls onto
the yard, but would probably help a burglar empty our house
in exchange for tummy rubs. They are also fair to middling
hunting companions, that is, if you don't mind yelling
yourself hoarse at that half-witted Copper. He can't seem to
quit chasing a bird until it's well into the next county.
As we walk, I note how old the dogs seem nowadays. Both
are gray around their muzzles; Copper is carrying a bit too
much weight; Curly has a bit of a limp due to (I suspect) an
arthritic hip. In other words, the three of us make for a
fairly well-matched set.

But we can all use the exercise, so off we go. They at
first sniff around out in the trees purposefully, making show
if it, pretending that they are hunting rabbits. Truth is,
the only way they could catch a cottontail these days would
be if a bunny ran smack into one of their legs and knocked
itself out.

Twelve years old: that's late middle age for a dog, I
reckon. I know they are twelve because my wife got them for
our boys the year my dad died. I'm sure she wasn't thinking
that a pair of puppies could ever replace a grandpa. But my
wife, in her infinite wisdom, must have known that these pups
would provide a least a small diversion, a little something
for our boys to think about other than the sudden departure
of their beloved, prankster grandpa.

Copper trots out ahead as usual while Curly and I bring
up the rear. Copper will stop now and again to look back at
us with an expression that says, "What's the hold up? Get
with it, slow pokes!"

Now that I think about it, the dogs are far from
ornamental. Last summer and fall they cornered three
woodchucks, two possums and one raccoon on our yard; we won't
even talk about all their run-ins with skunks. The point is,
they helped hold the number of trespassing varmints to a
minimum. This is certainly worth something.

Since the weather has turned cold my wife, kindhearted
soul that she is, has fallen into the habit of letting the
dogs spend their nights in the mud room of our house. I was
raised in the belief that animals slept outside and that
houses were reserved solely for people. Yet I dare not
complain lest my wife's benevolence turn chilly and I too
find myself out in the cold.

The dogs and I reach the far end of the day's trek and
turn to start the homeward leg. We are a good ways from the
house now, a bad time to recall all the rumors of cougar
sightings in the area. One mountain lion was supposedly seen
just a couple of miles north of where I am walking.

I wonder what a cougar might think of me, plodding along
at a sluggardly pace in my bulky Carhartt coveralls and my
too-heavy snow boots. Would he think, "Hmm... no claws, no
horns, can't run very fast... looks like LUNCH!" I wonder if
the dogs would rush to my aid. Or, would they simply look on
in idle curiosity as a fellow carnivore does what carnivores
do?

I like to think not. I like to think that Copper and
Curly would fly into the fray, fight the ferocious feline and
save my skin. They would be declared doggy heroes, be
featured on morning TV shows and feted at extravagant
soirees. Their dopey, furry faces would soon appear on sacks
of nationally branded dog food.

At least that's what I think every night when I open the
door to the mud room and say, "Hey you guys, come on in!"