~ Leaving Egypt ~
Dad and I got into a kind of reminiscing jag during some rainy days we had recently. Dark clouds and random cool gusts created a great atmosphere for laying crosswise in the bed and sharing road stories from our past.
Tucker and Keira would nose into the room to see if pets and rubbins were involved and would eventually settle around me and Dad while we talked. After a bit, Keira would either start snoring, or ask random questions to the point that the now sleeping Tucker would spring up, annoyed, and paddle out to see what Mom was up to.
Keira would pause her questioning for the count of about three and wonder if food was somehow involved in Tucker’s abrupt departure, and if maybe the office wastebasket had crinkled-paper she could run off with. Cue the Flying Golden… “Proceed to runway two, cleared for abrupt takeoff, visibility… all the way down the hallway, refreshment in the galley, lower level, have a nice flight, reddog2.”
Dad and I would resume touching on various topics, but we kept returning to our early days together. An occasional cool gust of rain-scented wind would wash past us, accenting and accepting our lazing around and sharing memories.
Back when I was just a puppy co-pilot, Dad liked to ask people we met what breed of dog they thought I might be. Way back then, my ears only stood partway up and folded in the middle, with the tips pointed inward toward my eyes. Almost all of Dad’s inquiries about my heritage brought out stories of a dog that they once had, and they were pretty sure I was that same breed.
If Dad had inquired only on the reservations, this would make sense, as I seem to have many, many, cousins there of similar traits. Off of the reservation, there were stories of how I looked just like (insert breed) while they patted my head or rubbed my belly, declaring with certainty that I was terrier, heeler, ridgeback etc., “Just like my (insert name).”
At one of the animal shelters Dad was delivering to (while I was dutifully “barking my fool head off” out the driver’s-side window in furtive reply to the barking echoing from inside the building), Dad asked the staff what breed I might be. In unison two of the staff said, “Feral”. I misheard and thought they said, “Pharaoh”.
I spent a long time on the way home thinking about the ramifications of having descended from the royalty of a famous ancient civilization. I was so quiet during the ride that Dad had to ask what I was thinking about.
I told him, and even made proclamations about how I really shouldn’t be sneaking so much rabbit poop during our walks when he wasn’t looking. Maybe I shouldn’t be barking so much because it didn’t comport with my regal lineage. Dad didn’t say much about that except to encourage me to do what I thought best.
Dad and I both laughed about how I tried so hard back then to live up to what I thought was my new identity. My efforts didn’t last too long, as everything in my bloodline was pulling me in the other direction.
I had quite a bit of character distortion (as Dad put it), until one day Dad had enough of watching my struggle and gave me full permission to act out and howl and do my spastic “dance for dinner” while he stood there holding my bowl.
It felt soooooo good, that the first thing I wanted to do after dinner was announce to the world how free I felt. “I AM HAZEL BAZEL ROCKET DOG!”
As my running back and forth and repeating my announcement of liberty caused the ignition of the neighborhood’s dogs vocal replies, I lowered my head in intense concentration and scoured the backyard for tasty rabbit leavings. No such luck, so I returned to my running and barking when Mom stepped out the back door with a strident question.
“What ON EARTH is all this commotion about, Hazel?”
Mom then turned to Dad and commented on how you could really tell in these moments that I was part feral. What Mom’s question hadn’t managed to accomplish, the word feral did: it stopped me in my tracks.
“Dad what does feral mean?”
Dad oddly enough was giving Mom a look that she usually gives him. He frantically waved his arms in weird gestures towards Mom, and it seemed that Dad’s contortions had some meaning to her.
“Hazel,” Mom said, leaning down towards me. “Feral means… uh, it means that… you’re uh, a mix of all the best parts of different breeds… yes, uh, that’s what feral means.”
“Is that better than pharaoh?
“Yes,” Dad said abruptly.
“Oh, way better Hazel,” Mom concurred. “It makes you very unique.”
I could never describe how good that particular day was. How much it cemented our pack-bond, being unique and valued (very pawsome).
It felt good to remember that time with Dad while listening to the rain on the skylights. We both drifted off to sleep until Keira landed on our level (the bed), licked both our faces, and asked me if she was still on probation of being a philosophical intern because of asking too many questions and saying over and over again how boring everything is and why can’t she chew on a stick while I’m teaching.
Being in the afterglow of a good nap and good memories, I told her she was off probation (stay tuned on that decision).
With that question answered, “reddog2” leapt into the hallway and announced to Tucker that she couldn’t go on morning patrol tomorrow because she had very, very important boring things to do as an intern.
I laid there listening to the rain and decided the only thing that would make it a more perfect day would be a couple bites of pizza crust.
~ Hazel Bazel Rocket Dog ~
(fantastic energetic rambunctious anxious loyal: feral)
