Equilibrius Hounds

Borealis was a Shepherd-Boxer-Rottie who did what she wanted.

You might've got suckered into thinking she was happy to see you, with her flirty eyes and that tail all thwackathwumber. You may could even get her to lick you like a content loyal fur-friend would do. But don't doubt me, she has beads on the end game always:

Get as much food in this belly as surrendepitously possible!

And you are a food-dispenser!

That was just her way.

Her sister, a simple Black Lab, had been killed by a simple black El Camino, which was why Borealis was regularly found with a nervous shoe in her mouth--though it hadn't been the car's fault. But that's for the next paragraph.

The automobile had not acted alone. There was a demon chihuahua who would harrass the whole neighborhood, at sleepish hours whenever manageable. It went from lot to lot, transmitting this hyper-pheremoned invisible soundwave that only house pets could discern, and then . . . all Hell would break loose in your barracks. That's how I'd foolishly come to unleash Borrie's sister on the bark-rat when I'd spotted it that fateful morning.

"Go get him, girl!" and then launch like lightning.

Out the door "Fletch" had bounded with all joints on lubricant. Hopping a bush taller than herself, she'd chased the ghost dog until it led her to just where it wanted and disappeared. That spot was the exact lane where unhappy destiny would find us.

And worse, not one to be left behind, Borrie had also joined her. She, being the lazier canine, had kerscuffled through the bushes rather than over. But she met the calamitous coordinates right as the El Camino came hurtling by on ominous cue.

All three dogs were clipped and hit or runover by the oblivious driver who kept on trucking.

Me . . . I was trapped in the tractor beams of instant shame and fear, guilt and that-didn't-just-happenedness. I stumbled my way out to the streets, stepping onto and through the bushes. The demon pug was gone, hopefully swallowed and burning alive by the underbelly of the car (but I was pretty sure it had just teleported back to Satan).

Borrie was bleeding from the mouth, some teeth knocked out, but seeming no worse for the wear otherwise - she must have been clipped by the rear, or perhaps she clipped the car.

But beautiful, loyal, lovable Fletch was wandering, limping, falling down in the wake of what happened. And then she finally just fell over and started to stop moving.

I couldn't breathe. I didn't know what to do. She was having trouble breathing as well.

I leaned in, tried to touch her. She gave me a look as if to ask "What did I do wrong?". It was as if she had received her final scolding. It was more than I could handle.

I called her name. I turned to make sure Borrie was okay. I went back to Fletch and stroked her already hardening body. And then for an unanswerable reason I ran back into the house. I opened the fridge and frantically looked for certain tupperware.

I found it, and ran back to the road.

My dog was still slow-panting, her eyes were bugged out. She was just hanging on. So I did the thing I'd decided to. I pulled the lid off the container and pulled out, and pinched off a smidgeon of chocolate cake.

There was nothing the dog had begged for more. But they trained you that chocolate was not good for pups. But what did that matter now?

I reached the bit of dessert out to where she could sniff it. She looked at me and wasn't sure what to do. I pushed some into her teeth and protruding tongue. She exerted energy to look at her nose, and then back at me.

I said "you can have it girl - It's alright."

She glanced back at me and she found the strength to lick her nose. I promise you she did it twice, but that was the last thing she ever did.

I sat in the street and cried. And I offered some to Borrie as well. I didn't know why. But that's what I did.

I'm sorry to take you down that memory lane. If you love a dog at all, you might have gotten misty recounting it with me. But here's the funny thing. I've fed Borealis some chocolate cake nearly every day of her life since then.

I wasn't going to wait until she had to do it, as some last obedient, me-pleasing command. I wanted her to enjoy her life now.

So that's the deal. Borealis is my chocolate-cake-eating dog.

But Borrie has her own story.

Aurora Borealis, the long form of what I called her, was the runt of a 9-litter. Her mother was a terribly unapproachable and jittery dog. She'd been rescued off the streets, had been hit by a car herself, and was most likely beaten plenty of times by somebody.

My chocolate eater bore the marks of her mother's imprinting, such that her jumps and tremors and mohawk-haired back (like a spooked skunk) might cause people to think I beat her, though she'd seen no violence herself, save the El Camino, but her skittishness was birthed in her from a pup.

Fear came at the hands of a plastic bag crinkling over-loudly, me folding my clothes out with too quick of a shake, a simple cough, or a pop bottle opening. Even the wind could do it, for crying out loud. A boomsome sneeze--Thats' all it took to make her jump or to send her out of the room with ears tucked back. She was my skittish mutt.

It was when I took her to the great dam in Canada, and we'd swum those currents that raced to its taming, that I'd learned what a special and brave girl she was.

It was after the accident. I'd wanted to see Montana, and had set roadsail from Phoenix to do it. Just Borrie and me. And while we were there, why not see the Canucks!

She was a beauty on the road. She'd smile at passersby. She'd hold her water in the car. A little treat here and there would tide her over until pullovers for gps-findable Arbys meals. I'd begun weaning her off the cacao paste. There could always be truth to the medical rumors. One doesn't want to be too proud or too independent. But I digress.

I'd introduced her to horses. She wanted nothing to do with them. She'd introduced herself to electric fences. And we'd explored hidden glaciers together. I'd learned the truth of God's companions called dogs.

But it was in that river the two of us finally understood each other. For the first time, life wasn't about Purina-Cereal (I mixed her food with water), fish-treats, or chocolate cake. I found the hunger for play alive in her in their lieu.

I wanted to take my clothes off and swim in that rushing and violent cleanness. But I was inhibited. And I didn't want to be. So I looked at Borrie, explaining with my eyes all we'd been through together - both the loss and the miles. She seemed to understand, but I got closer and grabbed her by her muzzle.

"Do you get it?" I asked her. "Will you be brave with me? Will you have an adventure?".

She shook her ears. That's how she says yes.

And I will tell you. I've never had fun like I had me some that day. I swam against currents. I body surfed that stream. I jumped at trout. I dove and danced like a wild man. I embraced the cold of the water. I did a Yank pretty proud.

And Borrie was right there with me. Swimming the deeps and shallows (which was odd, because the pools back in Arizona stymied her) . Jumping at waves. Going under water.

And you know what? She wasn't waiting for anything else special. No back end biscuit. No nibbles, no flakes, no licks from the napkin. No chocolate cake. Just the thrill of forgetful, lose-yourself, healing adventure.

You've read dog stories before. I hope this one didn't bore you. If you'd seen her think about the water's edge before actually getting in there you'd understand. And yes, I had packed some chocolate cake. We shared some around certain fires. But that's not the point.

She didn't know any of that. I'd made no vittle-ish promises. I never told her. I made sure she was in it to win it. Down for the miracle. Sniffing at and for Life's every Epiphany.

I know dogs are smart. And she doubly so. But she didn't know about that cake.

We had a vigil that night, that's what we did. For Fletch and the Demon Dog. For the leash with the locket that read "I never win". There were cursings and blessings, forgivenesses and laughters. We both licked each other's noses. What else do you need?

I'm quite convinced she knew what we were doing up there in those mountains. In those foothills of Dudley-Do.

How could I know that? You don't believe me. I don't mind that you asked. I do have an answer:

Because ever since that trip, my Borrie's not needed the old tennis shoe for parity. No more shoelaces to stabilize her world. Now she has the memories of wonder, the freedoms of running off-grid to call her. She no longer looks at me with food signs in her eyes. She might even be able to clear those bushes out front. In one leap. But let's not test her.

She's an adventure dog now. She lives for the moment . . . she faces the day, she even braces when loud things they clamor. And every once in a blue moon . . . a half-slice of Bon-Bon toffee cake . . . well . . . it might call her name.