AlderMountin

On Not-Thanksgiving-in-Canada I decided to take the pups to the local regional park down by the border. Fips seemed interested in going out and Rosco was eager. But they haven't been all that interested in poking around the horse-farm, so I figured they wanted to go somewhere.

I had taken them to this park before. Although Fips had been unenthusiastic, I thought he might perhaps react better if we explored some other trail. And so, instead of heading across a small field and up a hill, we headed off down through a wooded trail.

Rosci knows his business and led the way -- or better said, chased off on his own to sniff the trail's edge. Fips overtook him and then lagged behind. When I turned back, he seemed lost in thought or suddenly just lost.


I called after him --- Fiiiiipsie! -- and with a skip, turn and jump,

he chased after my voice, regaining his "location"

but also proving, once again, that he is not to be written off.

And so the three of us proceeded at our related paces, along the curves through the trees and the mossy underbrush. Rosco is a sniffer, his nose all but fastened to an invisible track on the ground. Fips likes to run. He will suddenly stop, as if detained by a smell; but then he will pick up again and sprint on forward. To be sure, his sprints are short and he also stops to regain his breath, but there is no question that he enjoys running and that he was enjoying himself today.

After a ways the trail began a slow descent, through a steep ravine on either side. Fips was all eager to chase on down, but I felt it was better to turn back. From what I've gathered of the park topography, the descent would go on for a ways and would require a tiring trudge back up, which Fips would doggedly brave but not enjoy.

At just this moment, he scampered too close to the trail edge, lost his footing and hovered a little too close for comfort next to a perilous drop.

I ran toward him and gently turned him around. "I think we go back-now" I said. Fips was still intent on going the other way, but I prevailed upon to change his direction. Rosco turned around and gave me an "aren't you coming" look. "No Rosci, komm." I don't know anyone who has more cheerfulness-in-disappointment than Rosco, but he turned around and followed back with the other two of us.

"Hey guys," I said, "it's just like Mountin isn't it? Only it's flat." "Mountin" Did Fipsie hear me? I think he did and, if so, I pretty sure it evoked a registered memory - of moist, mossy, humus scented trails under dripping trees with wet bark. He always liked Mountin and I'm sure he appreciated that it had gotten flat, even if he had wanted to do a scamper-down.

On our way back, Rosco once again takes the lead...

... and then slows down to a leisurely amble.

Lurking, Fips suddenly dashes out from behind and, chasing in a wide arc through the adjacent field, triumphantly overtakes his little brother.

After some joint sniffing at the gate, Rosco once again leads the way toward the truck... and home now.

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