My Dog & A Horse

There was this particular period in my life, about a decade ago, where I was in a quiet place of introspection, and chose to largely isolate myself from people. The vast majority of the inevitably necessary company I received was provided by my dog, Dexter. His muted, stoic presence filled the inevitable void dredged by solitude with a warmer, more comforting energy than any human could conjure. The cool thing about dogs is that you don’t feel the need to tirelessly impress them; they’re simple creatures, easy to please, and they don’t talk back.

I recall a lot of hiking, which was really just aimless meandering through the woods, and endless hours of pseudo-enrichment watching obscure, often foreign, films. Dexter was always there, either lying down nearby and half-asleep, or at attention, abounding with anticipation for our next move. He slept with me faithfully every night on the couch in the basement.

Each time I left the house he accompanied me, and each time I’d return to the car from whichever errand he’d react to the sight of me with excitement, head out the window, often crying, tongue dangling and flapping from his gaping mouth. It’s probably natural to appreciate the way your dog is always enthralled by the sight of you, as in I don’t feel mushy acknowledging it.

We would venture all over, within a designated radius of home, to find random, secluded spaces where I could allow him to roam free, off-leash. A lot of vacant construction sites were frequented. When I’d call for him to return, he would normally obey, but on occasion he’d be stubborn and seemingly ignore me. Then I’d pretend to start leaving without him, and each time, like a charm, he’d frantically chase me down.

One night I had a midnight hankering for Taco Bell, and by midnight I mean around 3:30 a.m. Another cool thing about dogs is you don’t have to discuss the logistics of plans; they are just down for anything, eager to enjoy the ride. So together we made the voyage to the nearest Taco Bell. I don’t remember what was selected but it most likely came off the value menu, as my budget then was quite limited, though honestly it hasn’t exactly swollen since. One detail I am certain of is that I shared that late-night slop with Dexter.

Returning home I decided to take what is colloquially referred to as the back road. The isolated, obsoletely narrow road that usually crosses through ostensibly rural environs. A road that acts as a relic from before the modern buildup of dense 21st century housing developments and strip malls, and connects the remaining untouched breadth between them. The kind of road that has minimal street lighting and lacks an adjacent sidewalk. And on this back road, I can’t recall exactly how, but I popped a tire.

And this is not exactly the first time I’d popped a tire. One time I was turning into the road that leads into my neighborhood and I clumsily hopped the curb; popped a tire. On a couple of occasions I’ve returned home to find a tire depleted of air, the result of assault by whatever phantom obstructions I’d unwittingly crossed while driving.

I have a vivid memory of a night where I struggled to navigate through the rain, car full of friends, and I lost control of the vehicle, slipstreaming into the wide, grassy median where in the center awaited a bed of large rocks, I guess for drainage purposes. The car became stranded, and a tow truck was required to rescue the car from its perch on the rock-island. Thankfully no one was hurt, but needless to say, a tire was popped, and probably more than one that time.

So when I popped the tire on this particular night, I did not freak out; I just took it in stride. I didn’t have a spare or even a donut, but for whatever reason at that time in my life I wasn’t prone to becoming stressed or overwhelmed by non-life-threatening situations. I made the obvious phone calls to try to get help, to my mom and whatever friends I had remained in contact with, but to no avail. AAA didn't even cross my mind, and I couldn't afford an out-of-pocket tow, plus I figured it was late. So Dexter and I were going to have to make the remaining around four mile journey home by foot, and I hadn’t brought a leash.

Gathering my bearings, I let Dexter out of the car and readied myself to start the trek, but then I noticed that my dog had vanished. I found him quivering beneath the car, and it didn’t take long to find the reason why: a couple dozen feet away, across the street, was a large horse, who had moseyed across his pen to rest up against the fence, probably inquiring into the ruckus we’d made. I swear I was not high, but I gently approached the horse and stroked his head, cooing to Dexter, “See, he’s nice, it’s O.K. buddy.” Next thing I know Dexter had bolted into the horse pen.

Through the dim lighting I watched in horror the scene unfolding before me: Dexter is chasing this massive, thundering horse across a field, barking louder than I have ever heard him bark. I wasn’t aware he could bark like that; one of Dexter’s many charming traits, which I’ve taken for granted, is he does not typically bark. Nowadays when I dog-sit for my brother I get quite annoyed by the unceremonious barking, and I’m pretty sure that’s normal dog behavior. So Dexter is uncharacteristically bellowing at and pursuing this galloping horse back and forth across its enclosure, and I find myself worried for the horse, while acutely aware that it could easily take my dog out with one inadvertent, or perhaps intentional, kick.

And just beside the horse’s pen is a house, presumably filled with sleeping inhabitants, who I am now petrified of disturbing and the hypothetical confrontation that would ensue. I don’t know how these people are going to react; I know Dexter wouldn’t hurt this horse, and I’m pretty sure he couldn’t. He’s an innocent, sweet, little babykins, but they wouldn’t know that. There’s also the reality that Dexter is a Siberian Husky and Chesapeake Bay Retriever mix, so he looks quite like a brown wolf. People often stop to ask if he is indeed a wolf, and I will tease little kids with a, “Yeah, would you like me to let him off the leash?” to which they squeal with fright.

So the prospect of these people seeing what looks like a wolf chasing their horse, and their having a gun and shooting him is a real possibility in my mind. After all, I am off the back road, where it’s a bit back-country, remote, bucolic if you will, so the stereotype says that these people will have a gun. Now I’m frantic to get Dexter to end his playtime with this horse and out of that pen, and I’m doing everything to get his attention and come other than screaming, because I don't want to wake these people. And I'm not entering the horse enclosure, because I don’t want to get trampled, or be in the potential line of fire.

I eventually, instinctively just start running away, down the street in the direction of home. And Dexter thankfully, obedience kicking in, follows me, and I am flushed with relief. But now there’s the daunting task of getting Dexter to accompany me all the way home without a leash.

This road mostly cuts through forest, so there isn’t a lot of room alongside it for walking. And traversing this path is hard to do without entering the street, especially with a roaming dog, and I'm worried he's going to get hit by a car. And of course, even though it’s four in the morning, the amount of traffic is more than ideal. So each time I saw a swell of luminosity due to the headlights of an approaching car, I darted into the forest with the hope that Dexter would chase me. And it worked, for four miles until we reached home.

I don’t think we woke my mother when we got to the house, as I thankfully remembered a key. But she was thoroughly amused by this tale, and to this day regales whoever will listen with an attempt at its recounting.

I still live, as they say, “at home” with my mother, most likely subconsciously because of the draw of Dexter’s presence. There have been a couple hiatus’ where I’ve lived elsewhere, but I keep coming back for reasons which include that my dog's here. He’s still living it up, or at least comfortably, and I walk him five times every day to keep him at optimal health, with the hope that he will carry on for a long time.

His antics are less frequent these days, but I still witness them with an internal smile, disguised by outward frustration.

I also do not recall how the car got home, but it did, eventually.