I am walking directly into a bright westering sun which has the effect of dimming my vision. I approach silhouettes with glowing outlines, the details shadowed. People carry plastic bags that glow with an eerie transparent white. And, on the path ahead of me, I see a male figure on his hands and knees, facing into the dense hedge that borders the street side of the path. A bulky female figure leans against the fence post on the other side of the path, watching but not saying anything. I hear a tenor voice; it seems to be saying "Bramble....BRAMBLE!" I wonder: is he talking about the hedge, or to it? As I draw level with him, I see that he has thick white hair, and he is wearing a burnt-orange corduroy shirt with rough pants and shoes. I look where he is looking. There is nothing but thickly entwined stickery branches and leaves, but he says again, "Bramble!" Then he says, "He's moved. Cheeky thing," and the woman says, "Where is he?" She doesn't move though.
Late afternoon is the time for walks, and 90 percent of the walkers are attached to dogs. So, I'm assuming that these folks are dealing with a dog in hiding. It solidifies my satisfaction: I don't have to walk a dog right now. I can go outside on my own terms and not worry about losing someones beloved fur babies. While I love the companionship of a dog, it is restful to be on my own. I've just completed a 4-hour loop, where a dog would have been in the way, even in this dog-friendly country. First I walked south down Rea Barn Road. It's a very steep street, and I was not looking forward to the return trip, so I decided to try for a circuit. At the bottom of the street, I turned right into the town and found the pedestrian mall leading to the harbor. It was lined with coffee shops, green grocers, butchers, and thrift shops (the British call them "charity shops.") Where the mall empties into the harbor, I found Simply Fish, the bistro that my host had recommended. I'd been wracking my brains trying to remember the name, but the visual solved it for me.
I stopped in, thinking to get take away and watch the harbor while I ate. They directed me to their take-out shop, two doors down, but when I got there I saw the hand-lettered sign on the cash register: "Sorry, cash only." I've been out of cash for weeks now, depending on my credit card and the largess of hosts, with the occasional handout from the cousins (they're keeping track I hope). So, I returned to the bistro and snagged an outdoor table where I could listen to the gulls and enjoy the unseasonably warm weather. I had Brixham plaice, grilled with leeks and garlic butter, and double fried chips that were yellow, crisp, and light. The wine came from nearby Lyme, and was a citrus blast that went very well with the fish. Although I was comfortably full, I decided to go for dessert, which was a mouth-watering lemon posset (a sort of mousse) garnished with 3 raspberries and a mysterious small orange fruit that looked like a tiny tomato but had an unfamiliar tart fruity taste. It was attached to thick dried leaves. (Later, a Facebook friend identified it as a Golden Berry.) I believe it contributed to the bright orange syrup swirled on top. There were also three sugar crusted butter cookies, crisp and melting on the tongue.
I was quite happy.
The cook asked me how I liked the meal, and we got into a conversation about his recent 27-day trip on the West Coast. Although I said the UK was a great place for traveling, he liked the sheer size of the U.S., not to mention "the nature! I was swimming and an otter came and brushed up against me. AN OTTER! and everyone was, like, oh yeah, it's an otter." He was 20-something, with rough flyaway blonde hair and big holes in his ears, but no plugs. I wondered if the restaurant forbade them.
They treated me to some white chocolate, and I walked to the harbor. There were two memorials to William of Orange, who apparently came ashore at Brixham before going up to London to take over the kingship. Brixham's other claim to fame is the invention of the trawler, but apparently the big trawling days are over. My host has a fishing boat, but most folks here work in the tourist industry now, I think. The harbor was full of tourists. Many were family groups and most were lined up along the harbor wall, crabbing. A gent showed me the process: fill a small mesh bag with bacon or squid and put it in the bottom of a net bag. Drop the bag into the water and wait. Then pull up the net, and voila! There are small brown-orange crabs scuttling around the bottom of the bag. My new friend said that they'd pulled out 50 crabs and were through for the day. I asked if he'd be cooking them for dinner and he said, no, they were throwing them back: it was just sport fishing, and besides, crabs from the harbor would be polluted with oil and other gunk in the water.
I walked around the harbor and started climbing the hill to Berry Head Nature Reserve. Deeno had driven me up on my previous visit to Brixham, but I found the coast foot path, which wound through a small wood until I reached the cliff top and the north Napoleonic fort. I had seen the south fort the previous afternoon. This one had more structures, including a very short lighthouse and a powder magazine. Just outside was a huge circular rock-lined space, with shallow pools of water at the bottom. I saw people walking down the a path on the other side of the space, shouting "echo! echo!" I deduced it was an old quarry.
I circled the grass-covered walls, looking out at the sailboat with orange sails that had seemed to follow me along the coast. On the seaward side, there were no walls, only cliff edges. I approached cautiously, remembering that cliffs can be undercut, but also thinking that the people in charge would have put up a fence if there was a danger of that. A nearby father was not so trusting: as his young son walked to the edge, he said, "Careful! Don't go any further, this is a proper cliff."
As I left the fort, two police cars, lights flashing, came over the cattle grid and into the enclosure. I paused, wondering what was happening. Everyone had seemed serene, walking dogs, exploring, pointing out to sea, sitting on benches, talking quietly. The police approached a man and a woman who pointed to the nearby north-facing wall. Everyone walked to the wall, standing on a bench and looking over, walking along the cliff edge, looking over again. I decided it wasn't my business, and I'd look it up later, and then walked towards the south fort car park and the footpath home. I saw another police car in that car park and asked if there was something wrong. They said, nothing to worry about, and then admitted that there was a woman on the cliff edge and they were trying to get her back on the proper side of the fence. I said, "so she's only a danger to herself" and they agreed that was the case. I said, "it's nice that people cared about her." They nodded and I left, my curiosity satisfied. A quarter mile later, by the caravan park, I was passed by an ambulance with flashing lights.
I hope she's okay. It was indeed a proper cliff.
Showing posts with label walk. Show all posts
Showing posts with label walk. Show all posts
Friday, October 27, 2017
Monday, September 11, 2017
Travel vignettes
1. I was standing on the jet-way, waiting for my carry-on bag, which did not fit on the small AA-operated short-hop plane from ABQ to Dallas. I was first in line, so I could see everyone deplaning. I noticed a thin woman with short grey hair and a pointed nose: she seemed the quintessential single retired traveler. Sensibly dressed, wearing good walking shoes and a backpack, she seemed like B's Tante Helga, grey, spare, wiry, intelligent, and focused. I met her a few moments later on the shuttle to Terminal D, the place for international flights. We got into conversation because there were issues with the shuttle: a large and genial airport employee had us all evacuate and the shuttle was sent on its way empty. We waited, talking of our upcoming journeys, as two more empty shuttles zipped by. She was en route to a coach tour, via Berlin, with a final destination in Budapest, where she planned to see a 50-year retrospective of photographer Peter Korniss. In between my various trips to the agent counter, getting my ticket problem resolved, we spent the 3-hour wait looking at his black and white photographs of a changing peoples. She actually had met the artist, because her Tesuque Gallery had run an exhibit of his work, many years back, and she owned a few of his photographs. It's always interesting to meet like-minded individuals so serendipitously. It appears I'm not the only person who travels to see art. It reminded me of the time in 1999 when I traveled the Lake District and Yorkshire, tracking down Andy Goldsworthy Millennial project works and locations. A little obsession helps to focus a trip, and you meet some unexpected people. My current trip doesn't have that sort of focus, but it does have the flexibility of being open to the unexpected. I think that I'm noticing people as well as art, light, patterns, smells and sounds. After years of figuring out how I can help people to information or services, I'm now looking for the interaction, the new ideas I can learn.
2. The GWR train from Paddington to Plymouth goes through green hills and along the southern coast. I was so jet-lagged, it was difficult to keep my eyes open. I sat backwards at a table, next to a young man wearing earbuds. He paid no attention to me or the scenery. The elderly couple that boarded at the first stop were more attentive. They were on holiday to visit friends and had packed food for the journey. They read the paper and watched the view and talked quietly between themselves and sipped at bottles of tea. When we passed three canal boats, they explained that they were usually vacation sites. The train filled up with a mix of chatty teens, middle-aged vacationers, and couples. I couldn't suss out what the purpose of travel was for the teens and 20-somethings, but they made up the majority. I saw the white horse and heard one of the teen girls say in a strong accent "look, a horse!" Halfway along, I moved over to a vacated window seat facing forward. Eventually that meant I was watching the coastline. The train followed a cement path along the coast, and the sands and path were full of walkers. I noted lines of short stone or wooden spikes and learned later that they had been placed to prevent silting up. The sun came and went, and I was joined by a young man and woman. They seemed to be mates, not a couple. He sat facing backwards, and she sat next to me. They shared sandwiches and she worked a crossword while he listened to something on his mobile. She shared a clue with the boy, and I smiled, thinking of G and P and their habit of working crosswords together. Eventually I offered a solution, and then I was involved to the end. My big contribution was the word "fatigues" for "military garb." She'd never heard of such a thing.
3. Tavistock market town is one of the few places in England to boast a subscription library, aka, independent library. It's housed to the side of Bedford Square and the Pannier Market, next to the Museum which now takes over the space that used to be the library, above the old gate way. The library is now totally housed in the old reading room on the ground floor. There is nothing imposing about the architecture, furniture, or books. It's a small room. The center is filled by a wooden table, covered in magazines and newspapers, surrounded by wooden chairs. Glass-fronted bookcases line one wall. On the opposite wall are pictures and a fireplace. The wall facing the doorway is a tall window facing the Abbey-turned-Town Hall and the open entry to the Pannier Market. When I visited, a busker was sitting under the window playing a harp and singing folk songs: I recorded her singing The Raggle-Taggle Gypsy and could hear her from inside the library. Three elderly subscribers sat to the right of the door, and a portly gentleman with handlebar mustache, glasses, and a beaming smile greeted me as I entered. It took awhile to learn who he was (the Chairman of the Committee), but he was voluble and welcoming and gave me the history of the library and its collection most happily. It's an archive, but the books are not particularly valuable, being previous library books and not much older than the 1800s. So, there is no climate control, although the glassed in area creates a small microclimate. According to the Chairman, mold is created by a combination of moisture and people germs, so the books are fairly well preserved.
I met Graham, a short octogenarian with a shock of grey-white hair. He held a book up for me so I could photograph the inside cover, where the lending information was stored. It was a memoir of Joshua Reynolds. The books in the Tavistock Subscription Library have been winnowed down to only covered local information, so Reynolds' Devon birth is what put him in the collection. Graham is the Old Man of the Library and still shows up to do some work. He smelled of urine, but was outwardly clean, if rumpled, and he smiled at me with watery blue eyes saying, "no don't take my picture, it'll crack your lens."
The Subscription Library is open to non-subscribers on Saturdays, which is when I visited. I stopped first at the bi-weekly Farmer's Market and picked up Bread of Devon for my host and beetroot, a pasty, and honey for myself. The purchases were dropped on the floor, along with umbrella and walking stick, as I wandered around the table. On display by the door I found a new book by a local author: it was all about the 3-hare motif. Apparently the Tavistock church is one of many Devon locations for the motif, so I took a picture of the map in the book and plan to roam the moors, looking for rabbits. This assumes I get over my nervousness about driving a stick shift through English country lanes.
Towards the end of my hour-long visit, a woman newly-moved to Mary Tavy came in to research her home. As I left, she was filling out the membership application and receiving the code to the door (a punch button affair.) If I'd wanted, I could have wangled the code out of the Chairman, but I decided to not take advantage of his good nature.
4. My first sight of Brangwyn Cottage came through the arch of a viaduct. It's concrete/stone house, buried in greenery, surrounded by crenelated stone walls. Plants line the walls and the house, and a green lawn fills in the bowl. There's a messy orchard with long grass and leaning apple trees next to the kitchen and a walled garden below that. You walk through an arch in the wall, down some slippery stone stairs to a door at the far end and further down a grassy bramble tunnel to reach the old Abbey area and market. Walking up the hill takes you to the entrance of the viaduct trail. The viaduct used to be a railway bridge, and now it's a cycling/running/dogwalking haven. The viaduct has high stone walls over which I can view the town. After that, the paved trail is like a green roofless tunnel, with water running to one side and granite cliffs filled with mosses and other wet area plants. Occasionally one passes beneath a high road through a short tunnel: I usually sing a high note to hear the echo. It feels like hiking in the Gorge, without the hills. Sadly, the dogs don't seem to want to go all the way down the trail. Perhaps it's the rain.
2. The GWR train from Paddington to Plymouth goes through green hills and along the southern coast. I was so jet-lagged, it was difficult to keep my eyes open. I sat backwards at a table, next to a young man wearing earbuds. He paid no attention to me or the scenery. The elderly couple that boarded at the first stop were more attentive. They were on holiday to visit friends and had packed food for the journey. They read the paper and watched the view and talked quietly between themselves and sipped at bottles of tea. When we passed three canal boats, they explained that they were usually vacation sites. The train filled up with a mix of chatty teens, middle-aged vacationers, and couples. I couldn't suss out what the purpose of travel was for the teens and 20-somethings, but they made up the majority. I saw the white horse and heard one of the teen girls say in a strong accent "look, a horse!" Halfway along, I moved over to a vacated window seat facing forward. Eventually that meant I was watching the coastline. The train followed a cement path along the coast, and the sands and path were full of walkers. I noted lines of short stone or wooden spikes and learned later that they had been placed to prevent silting up. The sun came and went, and I was joined by a young man and woman. They seemed to be mates, not a couple. He sat facing backwards, and she sat next to me. They shared sandwiches and she worked a crossword while he listened to something on his mobile. She shared a clue with the boy, and I smiled, thinking of G and P and their habit of working crosswords together. Eventually I offered a solution, and then I was involved to the end. My big contribution was the word "fatigues" for "military garb." She'd never heard of such a thing.
3. Tavistock market town is one of the few places in England to boast a subscription library, aka, independent library. It's housed to the side of Bedford Square and the Pannier Market, next to the Museum which now takes over the space that used to be the library, above the old gate way. The library is now totally housed in the old reading room on the ground floor. There is nothing imposing about the architecture, furniture, or books. It's a small room. The center is filled by a wooden table, covered in magazines and newspapers, surrounded by wooden chairs. Glass-fronted bookcases line one wall. On the opposite wall are pictures and a fireplace. The wall facing the doorway is a tall window facing the Abbey-turned-Town Hall and the open entry to the Pannier Market. When I visited, a busker was sitting under the window playing a harp and singing folk songs: I recorded her singing The Raggle-Taggle Gypsy and could hear her from inside the library. Three elderly subscribers sat to the right of the door, and a portly gentleman with handlebar mustache, glasses, and a beaming smile greeted me as I entered. It took awhile to learn who he was (the Chairman of the Committee), but he was voluble and welcoming and gave me the history of the library and its collection most happily. It's an archive, but the books are not particularly valuable, being previous library books and not much older than the 1800s. So, there is no climate control, although the glassed in area creates a small microclimate. According to the Chairman, mold is created by a combination of moisture and people germs, so the books are fairly well preserved.
I met Graham, a short octogenarian with a shock of grey-white hair. He held a book up for me so I could photograph the inside cover, where the lending information was stored. It was a memoir of Joshua Reynolds. The books in the Tavistock Subscription Library have been winnowed down to only covered local information, so Reynolds' Devon birth is what put him in the collection. Graham is the Old Man of the Library and still shows up to do some work. He smelled of urine, but was outwardly clean, if rumpled, and he smiled at me with watery blue eyes saying, "no don't take my picture, it'll crack your lens."
The Subscription Library is open to non-subscribers on Saturdays, which is when I visited. I stopped first at the bi-weekly Farmer's Market and picked up Bread of Devon for my host and beetroot, a pasty, and honey for myself. The purchases were dropped on the floor, along with umbrella and walking stick, as I wandered around the table. On display by the door I found a new book by a local author: it was all about the 3-hare motif. Apparently the Tavistock church is one of many Devon locations for the motif, so I took a picture of the map in the book and plan to roam the moors, looking for rabbits. This assumes I get over my nervousness about driving a stick shift through English country lanes.
Towards the end of my hour-long visit, a woman newly-moved to Mary Tavy came in to research her home. As I left, she was filling out the membership application and receiving the code to the door (a punch button affair.) If I'd wanted, I could have wangled the code out of the Chairman, but I decided to not take advantage of his good nature.
4. My first sight of Brangwyn Cottage came through the arch of a viaduct. It's concrete/stone house, buried in greenery, surrounded by crenelated stone walls. Plants line the walls and the house, and a green lawn fills in the bowl. There's a messy orchard with long grass and leaning apple trees next to the kitchen and a walled garden below that. You walk through an arch in the wall, down some slippery stone stairs to a door at the far end and further down a grassy bramble tunnel to reach the old Abbey area and market. Walking up the hill takes you to the entrance of the viaduct trail. The viaduct used to be a railway bridge, and now it's a cycling/running/dogwalking haven. The viaduct has high stone walls over which I can view the town. After that, the paved trail is like a green roofless tunnel, with water running to one side and granite cliffs filled with mosses and other wet area plants. Occasionally one passes beneath a high road through a short tunnel: I usually sing a high note to hear the echo. It feels like hiking in the Gorge, without the hills. Sadly, the dogs don't seem to want to go all the way down the trail. Perhaps it's the rain.
Monday, June 26, 2017
The theory of dog walking
Years ago, I saw a picture of a young woman walking a pack of dogs of all shapes, colors, and sizes. It was a black and white photograph, artfully composed, and it really wasn't about the dogs, although that's what drew my attention, of course. That, and the control, the sangfroid of the dog walker. She and the dogs were in profile, leashes fanned tautly away from her fist, her long hair flipping behind her in a breeze and glowing at the edges. She was braced slightly backwards against the pull of the leashes.
There was so much in that picture: beauty, social commentary, economic ironies. I have it in my head that I found it in an anthology. Maybe it was news pictures by the decade, maybe pictures by a famous photographer, like Annie Leibovitz. It was her sort of picture, as I remember it. And the memory is all I have to go by. A google search brought me yoga poses, silhouettes, people walking large numbers of dogs, people walking 2 dogs, dogs looking straight at the camera, dogs running in a park, two-fisted dog walkers, burly young men walking in sweats, older gentlemen in tweeds and hat. None were the picture I sought. I tried searching phrases, I tried searching single words. Examples: "new york" dog walkers, or leibovitz dogs, or my piece de resistance, "new york" young woman dog walker "annie leibovitz" black and white. I limited by "images" and skimmed through several pages of images. Nada. But one thing struck me as I searched: none of the dog walkers displayed the equanimity that I remembered. They all looked overwhelmed, stressed.
The reason I was looking for that picture is that now I'm paying for my lodging by walking dogs, specifically the dogs that I am pet-sitting. And tonight, as I unwound the two leashes for the umpteenth time (pink for the girl dog, blue for the boy dog, I kid you not), I thought back to that image and I thought..."it had to have been posed." The naive nascent photographer that first saw that picture didn't think in those terms. I was new to the idea of an industry of dog walkers, said industry being created by a society of people who want pets but don't have the time to actually care for them. Instead of speculating on photographic logistics, I pondered paradoxes: why have a dog if you can't walk with it? why have a dog in New York? Dogs need to run free, right? I also pondered the skill of the walker: how did she manage all those dogs, each pulling with a hugely different weight. Did she ever get off balance? What happened if she fell? It was a lifestyle on several levels: owner, walker, dogs. I thought about that, and I admired the lines created by taut leash and flowing hair.
Now, I think, yes, she was probably posed, but that just raises more questions. How did they manage the pose? The dogs were all in front of her, all going in one direction. None were stopping to sniff, the leashes weren't tangling, the dogs weren't barking at trucks or straining at the leash to eviscerate a squirrel. It was actually rather boring, and the girl clearly thought so too: her face was composed and still, giving nothing away. It was a job, that's all, maybe an hour in the morning.
It's not a job for me. It's more an avocation. I'm not getting paid (well, other than with lodging). I am fascinated by the different personalities of dogs and owners, and I am certainly neither bored nor composed. I am in loco parentis, trying to make sure the fur babies are happy and healthy. I'm learning the neighborhoods while I exercise myself and the dogs. I'm absorbing the styles of houses and gardens, and I'm meeting the neighbors. I'm checking out the trees, and I'm enthralled to discover that both neighborhoods have a little free library. And, I'm starting to recognize the differences in dog owners.
I discover that I was a lackadaisical dog walker. I had few tools of the trade: some treats in my pocket, some plastic bags saved from the daily paper delivery, a leash that fastened to the collar. I'd say "Walkers!" and Carbon would run to my side, wagging her pseudo-tail. I'd say "Sit!" and she'd sit while I hooked the leash to the collar. And then we'd be out the door. Sometimes it would be along walk with H, through the Laurelhurst rose gardens. Sometimes it would be a short walk to the nearby park. Eventually we had to limit to 1 short walk a day, as her laryngeal paralysis kicked in.
The process is more involved with these other dogs. For one thing, these dogs all have harnesses, the donning of which they resist. They walk away, they duck their heads, they shake themselves vigorously afterwards. Partly because of the resistance, it takes me forever to figure out the proper procedure for winding the harness so that legs and head are in the proper holes. I try not to get flustered, because I need to make sure I have keys, sunglasses, and plastic bags. And not just any plastic bag: they also have special waste bags. Rudy's were green and square, dispensed from a box, rather like a kleenex box. I pulled out two and tied them to the leash handle. Cookie and Didi have long blue bags that fit into a dispenser made of hard blue plastic. It's cute, shaped like a little bone. The top unscrews, and the roll fits inside, with the end poking out through a hole. The dispenser clips to the larger leash, and I never have to worry about the 3-dump walk...until tonight, when the roll ran out.
Control is a problem. These are small to mid-sized dogs, so I can handle the pull, but they are definitely not under voice command. Cookie and Didi mainly focus on sniffing, although they will chase the occasional lizard. Rudy had several quirks: he hated all trucks and German shepherds, and was a little wary, even of dogs he knew. And he was obsessed by the grey squirrels, straining at the leash as the squirrels raced up the tree trunk and then over our heads to the other side of the road. But, as long as those distractions were not present, he was amendable to "come!" while Cookie and Didi are not. Didi, in particular, has a fondness for a particular type of lush lawn: she'll lie with her entire belly pressed to the grasses, cooling off. She won't leave until I pick her up and carry her away. Of course, it's hotter here. I don't really blame her.
When I get home, I have to wipe their feet, even if they didn't get muddy (and they don't: it's dry, dusty, and hot.) But, these rituals are easy to learn, and while my nature is slapdash, I have plenty of time to follow the patterns that make the animals happy. And that makes me happy. Part of the reason I'm enjoying this gig is that it gives me a chance, a requirement actually, to get outdoors every day. I've needed this for a long time. So, while I don't have the skills to manage the multiple dog walk, I do have the theory down: pick up the waste, notice the hazards, get outside, and be consistent.
Now that I think of it, those are darn good rules to follow even without the pleasure of a dog companion.
There was so much in that picture: beauty, social commentary, economic ironies. I have it in my head that I found it in an anthology. Maybe it was news pictures by the decade, maybe pictures by a famous photographer, like Annie Leibovitz. It was her sort of picture, as I remember it. And the memory is all I have to go by. A google search brought me yoga poses, silhouettes, people walking large numbers of dogs, people walking 2 dogs, dogs looking straight at the camera, dogs running in a park, two-fisted dog walkers, burly young men walking in sweats, older gentlemen in tweeds and hat. None were the picture I sought. I tried searching phrases, I tried searching single words. Examples: "new york" dog walkers, or leibovitz dogs, or my piece de resistance, "new york" young woman dog walker "annie leibovitz" black and white. I limited by "images" and skimmed through several pages of images. Nada. But one thing struck me as I searched: none of the dog walkers displayed the equanimity that I remembered. They all looked overwhelmed, stressed.
The reason I was looking for that picture is that now I'm paying for my lodging by walking dogs, specifically the dogs that I am pet-sitting. And tonight, as I unwound the two leashes for the umpteenth time (pink for the girl dog, blue for the boy dog, I kid you not), I thought back to that image and I thought..."it had to have been posed." The naive nascent photographer that first saw that picture didn't think in those terms. I was new to the idea of an industry of dog walkers, said industry being created by a society of people who want pets but don't have the time to actually care for them. Instead of speculating on photographic logistics, I pondered paradoxes: why have a dog if you can't walk with it? why have a dog in New York? Dogs need to run free, right? I also pondered the skill of the walker: how did she manage all those dogs, each pulling with a hugely different weight. Did she ever get off balance? What happened if she fell? It was a lifestyle on several levels: owner, walker, dogs. I thought about that, and I admired the lines created by taut leash and flowing hair.
Now, I think, yes, she was probably posed, but that just raises more questions. How did they manage the pose? The dogs were all in front of her, all going in one direction. None were stopping to sniff, the leashes weren't tangling, the dogs weren't barking at trucks or straining at the leash to eviscerate a squirrel. It was actually rather boring, and the girl clearly thought so too: her face was composed and still, giving nothing away. It was a job, that's all, maybe an hour in the morning.
It's not a job for me. It's more an avocation. I'm not getting paid (well, other than with lodging). I am fascinated by the different personalities of dogs and owners, and I am certainly neither bored nor composed. I am in loco parentis, trying to make sure the fur babies are happy and healthy. I'm learning the neighborhoods while I exercise myself and the dogs. I'm absorbing the styles of houses and gardens, and I'm meeting the neighbors. I'm checking out the trees, and I'm enthralled to discover that both neighborhoods have a little free library. And, I'm starting to recognize the differences in dog owners.
I discover that I was a lackadaisical dog walker. I had few tools of the trade: some treats in my pocket, some plastic bags saved from the daily paper delivery, a leash that fastened to the collar. I'd say "Walkers!" and Carbon would run to my side, wagging her pseudo-tail. I'd say "Sit!" and she'd sit while I hooked the leash to the collar. And then we'd be out the door. Sometimes it would be along walk with H, through the Laurelhurst rose gardens. Sometimes it would be a short walk to the nearby park. Eventually we had to limit to 1 short walk a day, as her laryngeal paralysis kicked in.
The process is more involved with these other dogs. For one thing, these dogs all have harnesses, the donning of which they resist. They walk away, they duck their heads, they shake themselves vigorously afterwards. Partly because of the resistance, it takes me forever to figure out the proper procedure for winding the harness so that legs and head are in the proper holes. I try not to get flustered, because I need to make sure I have keys, sunglasses, and plastic bags. And not just any plastic bag: they also have special waste bags. Rudy's were green and square, dispensed from a box, rather like a kleenex box. I pulled out two and tied them to the leash handle. Cookie and Didi have long blue bags that fit into a dispenser made of hard blue plastic. It's cute, shaped like a little bone. The top unscrews, and the roll fits inside, with the end poking out through a hole. The dispenser clips to the larger leash, and I never have to worry about the 3-dump walk...until tonight, when the roll ran out.
Control is a problem. These are small to mid-sized dogs, so I can handle the pull, but they are definitely not under voice command. Cookie and Didi mainly focus on sniffing, although they will chase the occasional lizard. Rudy had several quirks: he hated all trucks and German shepherds, and was a little wary, even of dogs he knew. And he was obsessed by the grey squirrels, straining at the leash as the squirrels raced up the tree trunk and then over our heads to the other side of the road. But, as long as those distractions were not present, he was amendable to "come!" while Cookie and Didi are not. Didi, in particular, has a fondness for a particular type of lush lawn: she'll lie with her entire belly pressed to the grasses, cooling off. She won't leave until I pick her up and carry her away. Of course, it's hotter here. I don't really blame her.
When I get home, I have to wipe their feet, even if they didn't get muddy (and they don't: it's dry, dusty, and hot.) But, these rituals are easy to learn, and while my nature is slapdash, I have plenty of time to follow the patterns that make the animals happy. And that makes me happy. Part of the reason I'm enjoying this gig is that it gives me a chance, a requirement actually, to get outdoors every day. I've needed this for a long time. So, while I don't have the skills to manage the multiple dog walk, I do have the theory down: pick up the waste, notice the hazards, get outside, and be consistent.
Now that I think of it, those are darn good rules to follow even without the pleasure of a dog companion.
Sunday, May 28, 2017
Scent and Memory
When I came back from Australia, I was loath to do my trip laundry. As I slowly put each garment in the washer, I inhaled deeply the scents that meant Australia to me, knowing that after I pushed the start button, all physical ties to that magical month would be gone, rinsed out with the laundry soap. All I would have left would be the journals and the photographs....and the memories. The spicy aromatic smell of eucalyptus, the sharp earthy sneeze of dust, the salty tang (was that from the ocean, or a stray bit of the marmite I had dutifully tasted and rinsed out with beer?): all were going, going gone.
It's long been known that scents bring back memories more vividly than anything else. I'm lucky that most of the scents I encounter bring back good memories: old spice means my first love, cinnamon is firmly attached to the rolls my mom taught me to make, cardamom brings thoughts of julecaga and Christmas. When I return to the ocean, the first thing I do is roll down the window and breath deeply of the salty breeze. When I smell the sweet spice of Daphne, in memory I'm walking around SE Portland with Carbon on the lead.
So, today, as I walk with Rudy the Cutie, I breath in California: sweet lemon blossoms, even sweeter jasmine, and dusty eucalyptus, that graceful invasive tree that is now as evocative of California as it is of its native home, Australia. No wonder I'm remembering Australia, I think.
Rudy too is following scents, and leaving his own. I watch his alert old man's face with the short floppy poodle ears held straight out from his head: he is focused and a little severe. If he were larger, I might be intimidated, but with his summer haircut and the long waving plume of a tail, it's hard to find him anything but charming.
Last night J taught me the walking routes for morning and evening, and today I am following them faithfully. But tonight I notice that the leaf-covered trail into the park branches to the left into huge trees, up a hill and around mossy grey boulders. I wonder where the enticing path goes, but follow the right-hand fork into the park, entering a boring cement walk circling a grassy field with a play structure on the far end. When we reach the street on the other side, I see the end of the trail I had noticed and start walking up it, but Rudy is having none of this break from routine. He lags behind me, not recalcitrant, but not willing either. I turn back to the street and he trots gaily ahead of me, reassured.
The park is empty tonight. 24 hours ago, eight teenagers were grouped around a table, flinging something into the air, talking and laughing. J hazarded a guess: "a portable ping pong table? that's clever," but as we approached, we saw it was no such thing. It was a plain white rectangular table, no net, with brightly colored plastic glasses set precisely in each corner. We ccouldn't tell what the kids are throwing, nor to what end. As we drew level, I said, "I have to ask: what are you doing?"
The nearest boy answered readily enough: "We throw it and it has to bounce on the table and land on the other side." Hmmm. "Oh, I thought you were aiming for the glasses." "Well, yes, we get extra points for that." "You're throwing quarters?" "No, dice," he said, showing me tiny white cubes in his hand. I asked what the game was called and he didn't have an answer: apparently it was a game they had created.
We walked on and I picked a eucalyptus leaf from the large trees lining the path, separating park from schoolyard. I bent it and sniffed, bent it again, sniffed again, a little ritual I repeated until the leaf was a limp folded square and the scent had begun to fade with repetition. We passed a huge patch of jasmine encircling an even huger tree. Rudy added his own scent.
I don't know what scents he is remembering as we walk the route tonight, but I suspect that his memory of the route is more about scent than sight. Despite my theory about scents, I know that my path is driven my sight. I still want to walk that path, wandering in the late afternoon dappled sunlight through the tall trees.
It's long been known that scents bring back memories more vividly than anything else. I'm lucky that most of the scents I encounter bring back good memories: old spice means my first love, cinnamon is firmly attached to the rolls my mom taught me to make, cardamom brings thoughts of julecaga and Christmas. When I return to the ocean, the first thing I do is roll down the window and breath deeply of the salty breeze. When I smell the sweet spice of Daphne, in memory I'm walking around SE Portland with Carbon on the lead.
So, today, as I walk with Rudy the Cutie, I breath in California: sweet lemon blossoms, even sweeter jasmine, and dusty eucalyptus, that graceful invasive tree that is now as evocative of California as it is of its native home, Australia. No wonder I'm remembering Australia, I think.
Rudy too is following scents, and leaving his own. I watch his alert old man's face with the short floppy poodle ears held straight out from his head: he is focused and a little severe. If he were larger, I might be intimidated, but with his summer haircut and the long waving plume of a tail, it's hard to find him anything but charming.
Last night J taught me the walking routes for morning and evening, and today I am following them faithfully. But tonight I notice that the leaf-covered trail into the park branches to the left into huge trees, up a hill and around mossy grey boulders. I wonder where the enticing path goes, but follow the right-hand fork into the park, entering a boring cement walk circling a grassy field with a play structure on the far end. When we reach the street on the other side, I see the end of the trail I had noticed and start walking up it, but Rudy is having none of this break from routine. He lags behind me, not recalcitrant, but not willing either. I turn back to the street and he trots gaily ahead of me, reassured.
The park is empty tonight. 24 hours ago, eight teenagers were grouped around a table, flinging something into the air, talking and laughing. J hazarded a guess: "a portable ping pong table? that's clever," but as we approached, we saw it was no such thing. It was a plain white rectangular table, no net, with brightly colored plastic glasses set precisely in each corner. We ccouldn't tell what the kids are throwing, nor to what end. As we drew level, I said, "I have to ask: what are you doing?"
The nearest boy answered readily enough: "We throw it and it has to bounce on the table and land on the other side." Hmmm. "Oh, I thought you were aiming for the glasses." "Well, yes, we get extra points for that." "You're throwing quarters?" "No, dice," he said, showing me tiny white cubes in his hand. I asked what the game was called and he didn't have an answer: apparently it was a game they had created.
We walked on and I picked a eucalyptus leaf from the large trees lining the path, separating park from schoolyard. I bent it and sniffed, bent it again, sniffed again, a little ritual I repeated until the leaf was a limp folded square and the scent had begun to fade with repetition. We passed a huge patch of jasmine encircling an even huger tree. Rudy added his own scent.
I don't know what scents he is remembering as we walk the route tonight, but I suspect that his memory of the route is more about scent than sight. Despite my theory about scents, I know that my path is driven my sight. I still want to walk that path, wandering in the late afternoon dappled sunlight through the tall trees.
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