~ Looking Back, Going Forward ~
Quite some time ago, a young reader asked how I’d compare being in the wild as a young puppy to life in high desert suburbia.
Since my time in the wild was very short, and I was immediately enlisted as co-pilot in Dad’s truck, it took a bit to learn about the domesticated life. So, at the time I was asked that question, I didn’t really have an answer. Now that some years have passed, and I’ve gotten to observe life from different angles, some things have come to mind about those days long past compared to now.
As a newborn puppy in a box with my littermates, I really didn’t get to observe much of the two-legged world or their behavior. I remember that for brief moments two young girls would stop on their way out the doorway to the school bus to pet us or pick us up.
When we managed to overcome the height of the box’s sides, we would wander out between the two by fours of the not-quite-finished entry way and explore for a short distance a winter landscape. Bouts of cold wind and wet weather was common. Looking back on it now, I think it helped harden me for the days ahead.
When my littermates and I were gathered up and unceremoniously dropped off in the great outdoors of the Rez, and later traveling with Dad, I endured all kinds of weather (and, eventually, all four seasons’ extremes). My humble beginnings, bereft of comforts that I now enjoy, let me appreciate both extremes of my life.
When I got to spend more time off the road, I remember being amazed at how little two-leggeds employed their sense of smell and hearing, well… compared to the canine realm.
Checking the posterior of any new acquaintance is always the proper form of introduction for us-on-four. Ascertaining sex, current diet, and general health is crucial to know. Why two-leggeds don’t do the same bewildered me. I think if they would adopt the posterior perusal, they might get along with each other better. Maybe they just don’t have the same level of olfactory prowess.
Often, I would be shocked to the point expressing myself vocally when they would ignore either scent or sound of improper incursions in the backyard. It took some time for me to realize that it wasn’t that they were ignoring these intrusions, as much as they were simply unaware.
Going back to the original question: how I live now is widely different from my beginnings. I have packmates (2 on 4), a Mom and Dad. Other than thunder, weather isn’t a large factor, and food and comfort are never far out of reach. I’ve had exposure to music of all kinds, scentless moving pictures on the ‘moron’s magnet’ screen, and of course, philosophical discourses with Dad.
Many seasons ago, when my job as co-pilot of the big truck had come to a close, and when I was having a blue day trying to adjust to being a homebody, I would lay on the big bed and imagine I was still a Rez dog.
I would try to envision herding sheep, culling young calves from the herd for my cowboy packmaster, or even being a constant companion for an elder in their winter years.
Dad still spent time on the road for a bit longer after I retired, and that kind of factored in why I would have blue days sometimes. I don’t think I’ve ever told my faithful readers why I chose retirement. Well, actually, Dad chose it for me.
Back then, our work week would start when Dad got up around midnight or one o’clock on Mondays to shower, pack his gear (and mine), and we’d head down to Phoenix to load the truck and head out to whatever Reservation the paperwork pointed us towards.
One harried Monday morning, I jumped up in the car, curled up on my blanket on the front passenger seat, and within a few miles of leaving the driveway, a long and mournful howl raised up from the center of my being and filled the cab of the car.
Dad, startled at this outburst that he’d never heard from me before, immediately pulled over to see if I was okay. I didn’t feel much like being checked over, so I headed to the back seat and stared out the window all the way to Phoenix. Usually, I would sleep till I felt the car swing through the Durango Curve. Then, knowing we were close to the warehouse, I would rouse myself.
Dad kept a wary eye on me for the next few days on the road, and everything was okay till the next Monday. Again, just a few miles away from home, I started quietly whining. Even I was wondering what was wrong with me.
Dad u-turned, dropped me off at home with a short explanation to Mom, and headed out alone. I admit that I felt relieved, but still didn’t know what was bothering me.
We went out one more time together, but I really didn’t feel like engaging much and just tried my best to endure the four-day trip. On the way home, I realized why I felt so disconnected to what had once been a source of meaning and adventure.
Thee had been a change at the homefront. Belle, my elder bulldog pack-mate, had moved on to the Great Backyard in the Sky some weeks before. That meant Mom had no canine companionship at home, and… I guess I’d really had enough of the road.
Leaving Dad to fend for himself out there did bother me a bit, but he seemed to do alright before I came along. Even though I knew I’d be missing out on pizza crust, Mom was my priority now. Dad took it well, and we all adjusted pretty quickly.
One day, on his return near the end of the week, I was off in the master bedroom by myself. Mom was concerned because I’d been there all day, except for meals (I didn’t want to hurt Mom’s feelings).
Dad lay down next to me and said he wanted to tell me a secret.
I was intrigued. Never had a secret before—oh wait, there was the one time Dad had a Navajo Burger (one of Mom’s favorites) and told me not to tell her. I guess that counts as a secret.
“Hazel, every day when you first wake up, there is always something waiting for you.”
I started guessing: Mom… Breakfast… Lizards…?
“No, Hazel, Potential.”
What? He had me at a loss.
“Potential greets us each morning. Do we see it, reach for it, or do we busy ourselves with the matters at hand and embrace the mundane.” Dad gave me a good belly scratch and told me to think on it, then left the room.
That was our first philosophical outing together. All this time later, that little pep talk means so much more to me and has chased the blue out of many an off day.
I may not be herding sheep, and I may have to endure scrubbies on occasion, and I may have grown a little soft in my posh environs, but I am loved, valued, and I have my own spot on the couch.
Big difference from my beginnings.
~ Hazel Bazel Rocket Dog ~
