Snow Bully

On more than one occasion, a typical walk through our neighborhood would include the disapproving sideways glances of neighbors raking and shoveling their yards and the quick crossing of nervous mothers with their children (and even some fathers) to the sidewalk on the opposite side of the road as we approached. Ratchet and I separated the ignorant and paranoid from the true dog lovers. Ratchet was my pit bull: my goofy, slobbery, people-loving, 80 pound wanna-be lap-dog who couldn’t resist an outstretched hand of a child for all the world. A favorite at his veterinarian’s office, Ratchet was a lover, not a fighter, but some people could only see the outside--the breed. But I saw personality oozing from every pore of that creature. How could they miss it?

But on this particular day, we weren’t bothered by the looks, the fear, the ignorance. We were encouraged by the weather; snow had fallen and our favorite field was covered in a blanket of fresh powder begging to be played in. Just East of the local church building, fenced completely by chain link with the exception of the entryway: a narrow division of fencing, framed with the notices hung about, proclaiming, “NO DOGS ALLOWED!” That was just to deter those who’d abuse the space. Not me. Today, I needed this space. I needed to get out of a home full of hurt and resentment. I needed my dog, and he felt it, too.

As we neared the field, Ratchet pulled on his leash with anticipation; the familiarity of this walk was enough for him to know the prize at the end of this rainbow. It got harder to hold on, but I had to; Ratchet was a runner and had escaped near death dodging oncoming traffic on more occasions than I cared to account for. He was also a familiar face to the local police and animal control officers responding to angry, frightened neighbors who encountered this dangerous breed wandering the neighborhood. This time, I held the leash for as long as my frozen hands could tolerate. And then…I let go.

Everything you need to know about the capacity of an animal to feel emotion, genuine emotion, can be revealed in its face. Ratchet’s eyes widened, creating the fuzzy wrinkles on his forehead to bunch up. His ears flapped; uncropped, but one was always hanging down, the other always poking up. The apricot-orange fur patch over his eye, common markings for this bully breed, glistened under delicate mounds of perfect snowflakes which he shook vigorously, his collar singing in response. His smile—the smile that only pitties can deliver that reaches from ear to ear, exposing that enormous jawline that so many people are frightened of. His long tongue hanging out the side of his mouth bounced against teeth grinning with joy. Joy. He was engulfed with joy.

I ran after my dog as fast as I could go in my fat, clumsy snow boots. We ran through the entrance into the field like we were saving our own lives. The snow was flawless and inviting, and there wasn’t a single hesitation as we accepted. I watched Ratchet begin to pick up speed and then he rolled. But his roll was different than just a regular, every day roll. This level of excitement couldn’t afford the time to stop before rolling; he ran and began his roll mid-stride, barely touching the surface with his feet. He flew through the air, spinning until he landed. Rinse and repeat. He ran up the small hills and flew off the sides. I ran to catch up and laughed as I watched. His unapologetic happiness inspirited the same unburdened joy in me and for the moment this was the happiest I’d ever been in my life.

Ratchet kept running and rolling until the puffs of steam out of his mouth were connected and he was finally ready to rest. He and I nestled together against a tree, me making “foot angels” and him eating snow. We sat…in a space where no one could touch us. As always, time ruined everything and the setting sun told us to return home. The newly falling snow, a descant to our already perfect afternoon, accompanied our walk, covering the evidence of our escapades. We walked slower, I think even he didn’t want to return home. I felt we both experienced our own personal laisser-aller moments in that space: Ratchet running without restraint, me being free enough to laugh out loud again. But as many times thereafter as we returned to that field, our field, we could never quite replicate those moments. The best ones only happen once.