A Woodtick the size of a doorknob
Wednesday, May 5Ð
9:15 a.m.-
The sound of applause on the roof awoke me this morning.
Rain! The woods is drippy and wet now after weeks of drought. Guttering installed in April has filled the rain barrel, excess sliding down the plastic sides and into the eager earth. The cabin is dry; slept with both panels open, ambulant night spirits passing through.
Heard a crash in the kitchen during the night. Both dogs were on their feet and agitated. A couple of hours later when I got up to stoke the fire, the flashlight showed a chair on its side and a puddle of wetness on the floor, draining toward the wall. I suspect Ally peed on the floor, knocked the chair over on her way back and hurried to stand and look as surprised at the commotion as EZ and I were.
Built a small fire this morning, more for companionship than warmth. Missed having a fire last night. Too warm, in the 70's. Open-doored wood stove is a necessity in cooler seasons, but I also like the camaraderie of a fire during cool rainy mornings of the warm months.
Trees are about 1/4 foliated. Youthful ripeness unfolding, dripping wet with rain in their limy-hued hair. Birches are the only trees still inside their pre-leaf prison. I imagine this drizzle (supposed to rain on and off for the next few days) is going to release wild explosions of growth when the sun finally shines. The dogs, who think stinking is fine, are pre-mildew puddles on the floor near my feet.
Ally--
Several months ago I began thinking about a "transition dog" to help soften the eventual loss of EZ, who is more old than young. Kept my eyes out, asked around, put the word out that I was seeking to take in another Golden Retriever, more young than old. Word returned three weeks ago of an eighteen-month old female who was being divorced because of a divorce. It was explained through the third party that she had allergies and consequent fur loss on her abdomen, but that she was a fine lady, had already been spayed and was ready for a new home.
Great. I met her in the backseat of a minivan where she sat side-saddle, legs cantered to one side, studying me with a droll face, eyebrows creased in doubtful surprise. Her belly was indeed bare but appeared that way mostly from scratching and front-tooth chewing. She exuded a sweet medicinal odor. I was told it was because of the expensive shampoos she was given daily to keep her clean and minimize the effects of her allergies. I suspected much of her allergy was caused by reaction to too much disinfecting and what she needed most was a good mud and swamp-water dousing. Arrangements were made for her to come live with EZ and me.
I picked Ally up and headed for The Woods. The first thing they did when we arrived was lap down a whole bowl of water. Then went outside. Ally walked to the edge of the clearing and squatted. EZ ran over to sniff, then walked six feet away and squatted. Ally went over, sniffed EZ's pile, then tried to hump her.
Woodticks are out. I talked with a man at the Store who, exasperated with ticks, shaved, then spray-painted his dogs white. So he could "detect ticks better."
I pointed out that it was unnatural for all dogs, but a Mexican Hairless, to be hairless and spray-painted white.
He said he used all-natural organics.
Major fight over a rawhide bone last night. Ally picked it up and headed to her mat. I paid no mind since, until last night they'd shared fairly. A vicious, bowels-of-hell snarling and snapping erupted behind me. I watched for ten seconds hoping they would sort it out before shouting "NO! - go lay down!" They slunk apart, Ally with the bone. I snatched it from her and hid it. They spent an hour in down-stay, sneaking glares at each other and resentful peeks at me.
It's a dilemma. EZ's five year history, before uniting with me out of the animal shelter, was terror and abuse. EZ's first life was spent in the custody of a woman of violent ignorance who acquired her with the myopic intent of making money off as many puppies as she could produce. Little is known about her history other than what the animal shelter learned when frequently seizing her as a stray; dealing with the owner on those frequent episodes. Shelter records show that she has had two litters, but estimate it more realistically at four or five. The shelter had treated her for abuse and neglect. Much can be deduced by her behavior. She is easily frightened. She's fearful of cardboard boxes and confined passageways. I sometimes wish I could see the conditions she lived with during her first five years, the beatings, the cardboard she was housed in, the lack of kindliness. Just as quickly though, I realize I wouldn't want to see. Her scars are set deep and permanent; the price of doing business with life before we met up.
Believing all people are good and love her and can't wait to give her a pet, she runs up to strangers with a spacious teeth-bared grin--often mistaken for hostility. She shows no restraint when pestering for attention and becomes a simpering ninny, like a school yard reject barnstorming the in-crowd, hoping to be liked.
I've learned to handle her carefully. Gentle coaxing works best, but anger shuts her down. She panics and loses herself in fear. Whatever the matter is takes time to become was. Ally, being a normal one-year-old is not so impressed with stern commands. Flying the tail and eager to do what she wants when she's been a bitch, I insist she comply, which requires more urgent persuading. Meanwhile, EZ slinks and cowers from my ire directed at Ally. She does not figure out that my tone of voice has nothing to do with her when it's Ally I'm exasperated with. Ally recovers from traumas quickly; EZ doesn't.
Hiked to the North Pool Monday. Dogs romped and frolicked in the water like maniacs on the lam while I sat and watched. EZ sliced her paw on something; Ally leaped and snapped at a fluttering purple butterfly. River is down six inches from a week earlier.
Felled a decrepit ironwood tree at the northwest corner of the cabin. Fully dead and hollow. Split what remained and kept warm by it for a night or two. Cut a couple of other standing dead trees. Had to. The wood I cut last December is still smolder spit-wood (it laughs at me when not playing dead) and everything else has been consumed. Found another ironwood tree back of the biffy area and got it wrestled into the cabin. That particular species is known as firecracker wood. Both dogs slink away from the stove when its fuse is lit.
We made another trek toward the North Pool, angling through the lowland along the newly blazed trail. Hot and dry. Temp in the low 70's. Without a leaf canopy the sun is penetrating. Found wildflowers blooming everywhere that weren't there yesterday. Violet and white blossoms set free out of the dead ground cover. The more I saw the more I saw. (Like little children screaming "see me!") Nearly to the North Pool I realized EZ's hurt paw was troubling her more than her earlier good nature admitted. Turned back and collected wildflowers for Meg. (She'd admitted having little time to enjoy the current spate of fabulous weather; has been missing the wildflowers.)
Sweating by the time we got back. It's dry and crackly out there; scary. Beautiful weather brings fire danger alive.
Refused to stoke the fire last night. Dogs had to fend for themselves while I languished under a blankety mountain of warmth. Got up at 6 to start a fire with youngest dog pestering for attention. Shirtless and shivering I threw combustibles toward the open stove door. Dallied no time getting back under cover. Fire obliged by burning. Dogs and I went unconscious for another few hours until 9:45. Groggy with dream and hell-bent on bladder relief; arose, stuck myself through a two inch opening in the door (dribbling only slightly on the beer bottles down below) and re-stoked the fire. Abbreviatedly. Was already warming to a gorgeous day, what with it already being nearly 10:00 and the dogs swirling around my legs to "get with it already!"
Heated water for coffee and roasted a bagel over the flames. Spent the morning and early afternoon at work on the keyboard. Opened the south panel. Dogs pooled underfoot. Air got hot. Made tea. I got hotter. Dogs didn't care. Opened the west panel for a bit of cool cross-breeze. Cooled off and made the morning pleasant. Dogs still snoozed around my feet. Got hotter. By 1:00 the temp in the un-shaded cabin had reached 80. Barefoot and linger-free I decided it was time to quit. Outside were vicious and wildly attentive blackflies. They appear only when conditions say NOW!, and that was Sunday.
Saw a mouse scurry and disappear behind a board last night. Carrying a baby. Damnit. A few minutes later my peripheral eye saw another movement across the cabin. I looked quick. Two mice were scampering hell-bent for the firewood pile. I got out the BB pistol and cocked it, pulled a chair around so I could see maximum battle terrain and waited, gun ready. And the mice knew it.
Gnats are atrocious. This is a time of year when being outside is wildly tormenting. They swarm about the face, landing, strutting and performing acrobatic stunts for their hovering friends. They don't retreat when I put up a finger to squash. I can easily kill five or six by clapping my hands together in front of my face. But killing them does no good. The limit of sixty or seventy swarming around my head quickly fills in with reinforcements from the other billions awaiting their chance. So, much of this trip will be spent indoors ... but the pattering of rain on the roof is articulate company.
3:30 p.m.-
Have laid down for a nap, sweaty and sticky and reeking of Deep Woods Off. Earlier I relented and sprayed my face and arms hoping to retard insect attacks while I raked. But when I sweated, the repellent ran off. Maybe that's why they call it Off.
Silent Ground is what you get after raking dead leaves away, whether fall or spring (spring is more rewarding because you're outdoors and the earth smells good after a cooped-up frozen-down winter). Go walk on it and you'll hear.
Thursday--
10:06 a.m.-
Raining.
Decided to get the hell out and drive to town for grass seed and beer. The road's top half-inch is tedious grease. Four-wheel drive conditions.
In the grocery I noticed a new personal beauty item: Paint-by-number fingernail polish, including "free designs and self-guided instructions."
On the edge of town: a local fast food joint named Quarry Queen. The logo is fraudulently designed to resemble "Dairy Queen." From a distance it even kind of looks like a big "DQ" but you must be rigor-mortisely nearsighted and not from around here. Or a whole lot forgetful and drunkenly hungry.
There are two hardware stores downtown, exactly one block apart. It has become apparent, through dealing with each in the past, that they are malevolent rivals.
I stopped in at True Value to see if they had grass seed and a mosquito netting hat, the sort of design that drapes around your face and head with a draw-tie low at the neck. They did not have net mosquito hats, I was told. I asked the fellow if he knew where I might find one.
"No."
I suggested in a hurry (hoping to defuse evident hostility and keep things light) that I'd check the sports shop five miles away out by the freeway, assuring him that they'd surely have one and that he needn't worry further about the matter. Then said I'd bring him one too, if I located two.
I asked if he had bulk grass seed.
"You mean 'dem big bulky bags?" (He was still sulky.)
"Well, yes. It does come in fifty pound bags. It is then customarily dumped, by discerning hardware store entrepreneurs or affable store clerks, into galvanized garbage cans and weighed out as a spendthrift convenience to indigent gardeners, then sold by the pound."
"You kidding? I don't know nut'in' 'bout 'dat."
I picked up two 3-pound boxes of shade mix, and exited in search for a mosquito hat.
Ace was the place, just one block south. They had 'dem.
While waiting to pay-up a very old man and a very old woman tottered in to buy fishing licenses, each markedly dependent on canes. The man was about ninety and hunched nearly to that degree. The guy behind the counter teased whether or not they qualified for the senior discount. Pleasant couple, still full of fun.
Pulling into the liquor store parking lot a few minutes later, I saw that the old guy and his lady had already arrived in his 1966 Ford Galaxie; he was struggling and clattering the cane to lift himself out. He bought a six pack of Grain Belt, and the attendant delivered it to his car. I love that. The image of the old dame and her man out fishing and drinking a little beer on an early May day.
11:00-
Who determines, and by what criterion, what speed to post when there's a "DIP" warning beside the highway? Such as the "45 MPH" caution along the Sandstone road. Highway maintenance personnel usually work from a pickup truck or a blaze yellow dump truck bristling with shovels and brooms and intense strobing lights. Do two county workers drive back and forth, down and up through the dip at varying speeds to determine what speed is best to post? ("OOPS!, Harvey. That was a tad fast for the coffee inside my cup as it has leaped out and doused down onto my slacks.") Proper velocity for a five ton county highway maintenance truck, and those riding inside the cab, may not be so good if one of the two testers just happens to have had recent open heart surgery.
Wouldn't the most appropriate speed for negotiating a "DIP" be best determined by trying out a variety of vehicles commonly traveling that route, Chevy Cavaliers, a Yugo or two, sports cars and pickup trucks. An impatient 20-year-old Buick could test-out at 80 mph without the kid even noticing a dip back there. A 15-year-old Dodge Omni would require a much slower speed than the Roadmaster--or the dump truck--to compensate for rusted body work and weak springs and an exhaust system swaying metaphorically underneath. The whole caboodle could explode in a jiffy and scatter the roadway with debris when the automobile dives into the dip, but turns out to be too structurally weak to carry itself back out intact.
Another consideration is the configuration of the dip. Most I've seen are asymmetrical, high/low pavement separations, hummocks, heaves, etc., that present more risk to tire damage from one direction than the other. Driving off a curb at 60 mph is easier on a tire than driving into it at 60 mph.
All in all, I think each county would be better off to post a big sign with a list of vehicles disclosing appropriate speeds for each at each "DIP" warning. Counties could potentially save a lot of money in litigation by reducing the number of discomforted complainants who had been inconvenienced by speeding through deep dips. Additionally there would be a reduction in collisions between vehicles and the palls of debris--including derelict dead mufflers, scattered on both sides of most dips.
This discussion is provoked by small print on the back side of a package of clothesline I just purchased. "Caution - Not recommended where personal safety is involved." What the hell does that mean? Don't bring this rope with you in a car and drive too fast through a "DIP"? Or on an airplane? Not to fashion a noose? My personal safety is involved every moment whether I know it or not. What idiocy! I guess the corporate law staff determined the importance of such a warning. Maybe we should be warned about tap water, "Careless use may cause drowning, or advance other unintended safety issues which could cause personal hardship or embarrassment." Or warnings on trees, "This 100% natural organic product, while providing many helpful benefits, harbors many dangers. Contraindicated utilization may result in splinters, crushed automobiles, big fires--house and forest--and literature that offends."
5:30 p.m.-
We have been driving remote roads through hard drizzle. It's been raining more than not for the past 2 days. The dogs in the back (out of the rain under the topper) are dripping wet. But they're happy. Ally occasionally pokes her head inside the cab, putting a paw on my shoulder. EZ comes too, to smell the warm air and give me a grin.
Came to a crossroads in the middle of nowhere. A weather-beaten house is there. A car backs out of the drive, wide tiny faces peering out of misty side windows.
I turned north. A muddy Malamute pounded out of the rain. The girls went wild barking at the barking slob dashing alongside with a woodtick on its head engorged to the size of a doorknob.
Along Forest Park Road near the end of the world I made a sudden stop and backed up. On the left, down in the weeds four feet back from the roadway is a small wooden cross with "DAD" printed on the crosspiece. I step out in light rain. To the sides of the cross are blue and red wreaths, "DAD." A glass vase at the back holds a bouquet of wilted flowers, last summer's grasses grown up through. An un-spent deer rifle shell is tied to the center of a white bow near the junction of the cross. Printed down the vertical support are the words:
"A million times we've needed you, a million times we've cried.
If love alone could save you, you wouldn't have died.
In life we loved you dearly, in death we loved you still.
In our hearts you hold a place no one could ever fill.
It broke our hearts to lose you, but you didn't go alone.
A part of us went with you, the day God took you home.
Love always. Debbie, Cheryl, Dawn, Chuck.
I drove on, brooding. That was about real life and real hell, and real loss that sets upon us from time to time. The media, especially commercial television, tries to keep us sedated, carefree and distracted, and out of touch with the traumas of reality. Seeking a public radio frequency, my radio dial regretfully tunes in the audio from Duluth's NBC Television affiliate, promoting a sitcom. Happy and larky and irrelevant. The sort of pabulum keeps working class viewers believing that life isn't such a painful grim deal after all. The media insidiously keep us alive with pleasure and flavors, and believing there's a "best" and a "highest," and a "number one," and that my life could be like those portrayed on television if I only keep buying and trying and believing I can finally do it as right as the script-reading actors do. It keeps concluding for me that life is not about death, rather about stimulation and higher pleasure which I, when it's out of reach, presume the failure is mine. Don't worry a fretful head about anything. Buy more.
We seldom see news about a father who died far away, who's kids put him up a minor roadside shrine; those children who traveled dismal miles into the center of nowhere, near the end of the world to arrange colorful plastic homage with words nobody will ever read.
Well, here's one time they have been read and appreciated and cared over, and I thank you very much whoever you are who have suffered and pained over the death of a daddy you loved.
7:00-
Dolly had told of a concrete sluiceway and given instructions how to find it. The rain has stopped, although the sky is still leaning heavily. The sluiceway is a bridge across a river, a platform without sides, about 75 feet long and 25 feet wide. The river is high, flooding 3 inches deep over the top surface. I park and release the dogs, then prepare the camera and tripod for time exposures of fast water. The hog boots I bought a couple of weeks ago are perfect for this sort of condition: rubber and tall, reaching to upper-shin.
I pay little attention
to the girls, they are fine, galloping through the water, investigating the
universe.
Three-foot diameter
culverts are embedded in the cement under the bridge. Several whirlpools twist
in the upstream river, pulling water and foamy froth down and under with loud
sucking sounds. I recognize the danger, the power and weight of this much
water all trying to crowd through small spaces--a Tokyo subway. But the dogs
know prudence, and I do too.
I set the tripod
into the streaming water atop the bridge, allured to a large tornadic whirlpool
a few feet upstream of the concrete deck. Take readings, set aperture and
shutter speed, trip the cable release. I see a leaping movement just off to
my right then hear a splash. Gut-wrenching terror, Ally is going down fast,
powerful forces dragging her under, completely beyond her strength to resist.
I splash down on knees, plunge my arm into the water and grab a handful of
fur at the top of her head. (I'd removed her collar two weeks ago and stupidly
neglected to get her a new one.) My resistance slowed her descent, front paws
flailing against current, nose straining upward, but sinking two, four, six
inches under the water. Eyes wild with panic. Turgid suction. My right arm
is losing the battle, she is being torn away by a strength stronger than us
together, an evil force taking her from me. Though afraid of losing my balance
and falling in with her, I submerge my left hand and grab neck fur. And pull,
and pull, managing to raise her nostrils above the surface. But that's all.
Like an evenly matched tug of war, nothing moves. I consider letting her go,
figuring she'd shoot out of the culvert down-river. But, what if snags or
obstructions prevent her from coming through? Slammed, battered in the dark,
finally breathing water and drowning. Me standing atop her grave visualizing
the horror happening under my feet. Not an option. I lug and drag, no progress.
My right hand is weakening, slips off, down she goes again. I plunge deeper
for the scruff of her neck, managing to again lift her nose above water. Ally's
eyes do not close or blink, only stare straight up at me from under dark water.
Everything else no longer matters but this crisis in hand. I shout "God
Help!" Adrenaline pumps, water swirls. Straining. Don't let go. Don't
lose this grip! Ally's legs find something to kick against, paddling under
the murky water, the battle begins to turn. Inch by inch she and I struggle
her up, forelegs gain the lip of the slab and with a final heave we pull her
out.
Tragedy averted.
She stands splay-legged, drenching and heaving in the shallow bridge current. Choking, hacking, every strength dissipated. She does not shake herself, only gasps and trembles, then looks straight at me. I suggest she head for solid ground, and she did. Stood on the road and watched me gather the camera and call EZ and head back too. She waited to shake herself until back inside the truck with EZ there too (an irritating trait). From the crotch down I am a soggy but happy guy. Jacket is soaked. Took of the hog boots and poured out water. Got in the truck and headed back to the cabin where, serendipitously, I'd laid a fire in the stove to light later.
Saturday--
8:15 a.m.-
From under my mound of blankets I see Ally parading with a cigar-looking rawhide bone sticking straight out from her lips. One of the stops on her circuit is to stand next to the bed, stare me in the eye and plead "Get Up!"
So I did.
The pinkie finger on my left hand is swollen and will not straighten. [2-1/2 years later it still doesn't.]
11:30-
All hell is erupting from Ally, who has spied Herb's cows meandering through the brush across the road. Large brown and black beasts. EZ, who seldom barks unless acutely excited, joins in the bedlam. Much yelling "no!" EZ runs to the corner and lays right down but Ally ignores my shouts.
11:45-
Walking to the river. The sky has become clear and cheery. Under the witch oak by the river is a fresh carpet of white and purple wildflowers. Am a bit nervous if Ally will fear water now. She loves to fetch sticks, so I throw one a couple of feet into the river. She wades in eagerly and hauls it back. I launch it a little further. In she goes, chest deep. Another throw, this time she has to swim. Another toss way out. She hurls to the bank and bounds in a classic retriever leap.
12:50 p.m.-
Had lunch at the Store. The old stubble-faced guy who picks up the trash every month was sitting smoking and drinking coffee. I asked if he knew anything about the guy who died a year ago up on Forest Park Road.
"Oh you mean Rash Road. He went in the ditch. Was there two days before anybody found him, still alive. Died soon after they got him to the hospital."
"Died of exposure?"
He was unsure about any of it, or maybe knew nothing at all. He seemed to think the guy had had a diabetic seizure or some other debilitating condition that left him unable to go for help.
2:10-
The Woodticks are out! Saw one crawling around on Ally's face. Picked it, tore the head off and flicked it away. Then picked another dozen off her neck and head; the same number off EZ. I laid down to read and picked one off my arm and two from my legs.
4:30-
Raining hard again. Becoming tiresome. Water is pooling where I sowed new grass seed on the muddy lawn, and floating it into useless heaped ridges around puddle edges.
Tuesday--
3:05 p.m.-
I wonder what it's
like to be an attractive younger female with prominent bosoms under a stretchy
tight sweater, tending bar on a sunny mid-afternoon Tuesday in May. There
are no other women in the tavern, inside and through a door from the to-go
package goods section of the municipal liquor store. It's all guys. Middle-age
to old, sitting at the bar, looking at and thinking about this attractive
young female and her breasts, right there a few feet away, but a thousand
miles distant. Drafting fantasies about actually being naked with this younger
flesh; what it would feel like. As unlikely as them ever joining NASA and
blasting to the moon. What is it like to sit in a bar on a Tuesday afternoon
in May and drink? Do they leave farm chores and come into town for a few hits
then go back to work? Do they hang out every day for a few hours, or most
of a day? What does this early-thirties bartendress--with a gold band on her
finger--think about these guys and the job she does, the leers toward her
chest and male daydreams swirling all in a cloud around her physique? Does
she get over it? Does she enjoy it? Surely she must know it. Does she know
how impossible it is for a man to not steal glances, or linger for long in
those sorts of feminine
sites when she's not looking? Does she flirt with these guys, giving them
hope in a hopeless way? What does her husband think about this, her working
in a bar with that sort of continuous tension? Sixty-year old guys sitting
at the bar staring, imagining their hands squeezed onto her. Does he enjoy
it, knowing he has exclusive access to her? Have there been betrayals to his
exclusivity? Does her husband care? Does he wish that he cared? Anymore.
6:53-
Raining. Hard.
I have lost my good cheer about rain. I am not in an endearing gracious mood. Haven't been all afternoon. Mud everywhere: on my boots, in my boots and all over the truck, inside and out. Grimy brown muck chasing us always, and everything is damp, soaked, dribbling. Rainwater filling my soul with regret for being here. Nothing is paved or in the least hospitable or civilized around here. Squishing is the sound from dawn until night. This is ugly terrain. Ugly landscape. Ugly country, ugly ugly everywhere. Abandoned and burned out hovels. Front yards of shuddering houses littered with rusting hulks of distorted sheet metal. Trash, dead cars. Beat up pickup trucks squatting in mud a few hunkered feet from a shack's ratty back door. There's nothing cordial or comfy. It's a harsh jarring life, miles and miles from more muddy dreary pointlessness.
Wednesday--
9 a.m.-
Rained on and off
during the night. Going home today. Don't want to do this anymore Dogs are
lethargic. They stagger outside. EZ rolls in the mud and brings most of it
back inside.