My wife, Susan, and I hoped for a one-day reprieve from deadlocked presidential polls and the burdens of selecting a new health care plan.
Our Lilly, the Boston terrier, needed a break, too. From the steady stream of repair people tromping in and out of our condo. From the late-night ruckus of the hookah lounge across the street . . .
From us and our human drama.
* * *
Endless hues of green carpeted the basalt canyons of the Columbia River Gorge. Lilly cuddled in my lap while Susan steered us along I 84 past swelled waterfalls and sheer odes to ancient volcanoes. Our destination: Parkdale Oregon, a swath of rolling fruit orchards nestled in the shadow of Mount Hood. Home to my cousin, Beth, her husband, Gary, and their three-year-old rescue, Bree.
It would be a day of sharing and adventure. Catching up with relatives who’d become fine friends. Touring the acreage they settled where unruly flora once reigned. Introducing Lilly to Bree and vice versa. I’d hung my worried hat on that prospect. Lilly’s reactivity around other dogs had markedly improved over the years, though close-quarter encounters still fluffed fur. Especially meeting head-on. And on-leash. How would it go between these two?
Susan turned off state route 35 toward the Kiyokawa Family Orchards. I sighed. Lilly turned and searched my face. Can’t hide anything from her.
Our families parked in the scrub-dotted lot adjoining the orchard. Bree and Lilly eyed each other from a distance. Bree, curious. Lilly, wary. We parallel walked them for a spell, three feet apart. Okay so far. Bree strayed closer. Lilly lunged and nipped the air left of Bree’s ear. I suppressed a heavy sigh, but couldn’t mute the stress I channelled through Lilly’s leash. We separated the dogs.
Change of venue. Bree’s turf. Reintroduce them following Lilly’s brief reconnaissance of the yard and a failed charge at a speedy squirrel. Brought them back together. Lilly, leashed. Bree, not. Me, holding loosely, summoning a Zen moment. Not quite. Lilly snarled. Bree retreated to the porch, tail tucked. Moved the two indoors. Both off-leash. Lilly “treed” Bree to the crest of a couch, then chomped on one of Bree’s toys! Such a rude houseguest! Beth and Gary and Susan and I resigned hopes for armistice. Let’s stroll the grounds.
The dogs joined us. Bree, free. Lilly on her take-no-chances-tether. Bree hurdled a fallen log and threaded a row of purple sage. A brief roll in the duff and she dove into a play-bow a foot from Lilly’s face. Lilly yelped and pawed the ground. Bree bounded back, bobbed her chase-me head and tore off into the wilderness. Lilly sought me over her shoulder. My anthropomorphism set on high: Daddy, can I go, too? Why not, baby girl. Why not.
I knelt and unclipped Lilly’s leash. She zoomed after Bree. My heart skipped. Lilly caught Bree. Clamped onto her haunches. Mouthed her butt. Bree slipped away, but not too far. Another play bow. Bree wanted Lilly to chase her! Lilly obliged. Lilly chased Bree through brambles and thickets until she sprawled, panting, on a patch of heathered earth. Lilly’s tongue lolled a dog’s finest compliment: You exhausted me! Bree’s tail looped up behind her back as she nuzzled Lilly.
Our Lilly blazed her own trail toward befriending Bree. I needed only to step aside.