Even with a courageous name the first few days were tenuous. Mom, as Sylvia refers to herself in my regard, was not as experienced with canines as I had hoped. The first night she decided I needed a big space to roam around in at night. She and Dad (Ralph to the world) put down some tattered rugs on the floor of his basement workshop, turned the light out and shut the door.
Now like most dogs, I think of small dens as safer and more comfortable. This was a huge dark, DARK, (did I say DARK ?) cavern of a room with all kinds of widgets and piles of junk laying around. I sniffed. It all smelled like a mixture of pipe tobacco ( Dad must be puffing down here where Mom can’t see him.) and machine oil – human smells. But the machines were the most disturbing.
When I moved about, things seemed to jump out and poke me in the ribs. I tried to settle down on the rugs, but there were all kinds of strange noises coming from huge box-like machines. The biggest would go off and on with a rumble and roar – like a sleeping bear. It seemed to have a will of its own. I was SCARED.
In the morning Mom found me at he door shivering. I tried to look brave, but I had left two tell-tale “signs” that it had been a rough night. Now, dog poop (as humans call it) is a no-no inside the house. But there it was. Would I be kicked out? No. Mom reached down to pat me comfortingly. “We’ll find a better place for you tonight,” she said. It was good that she could read the “signs,” and didn’t get angry. I felt relived that we were now communicating. That’s how I ended up in a partially finished spare room with a window and my very own padded crate for a bed. This would be my nighttime refuge for many months to come.
It took a while for Mom to get the hang of taking me out for “potty breaks,”too. She would get involved with a project and forget that canines have needs that don’t wait forever. I would come up and sit in front of her and stare. This is as assertive a stance as a Scottie can muster without losing our dignity. It works very well with other canines, but Mom took a long time to get the message. I knew if I went to the door and barked, I’d never get out. Mom has the ability ignore a bomb going off if she’s concentrating on her artwork. So I would stare into her face until she would finally look up notice me. I found over time that it really helped if I lifted a back leg ever so slightly.
At first it seemed a mindless chore for Mom to go out with me. Her attention was still on her work. Then, one night during a snowstorm, she suddenly awakened to the magic of the wild world that is always a part of me. I’m only a few generations removed from my ancestor the wolf. At night, I feel this connection the strongly. That night I raced through the snow ahead of Mom. I was churning up clouds of the white stuff making a trail with my muzzle. Mom had to concentrate to keep up. She started laughing as her coat became covered in snow. She was aware of the ancestors of her species who had to survive in the cold and found shelter in caves. I was her wolf friend, showing her the path. She got it!
After that the time we spent outdoors was a time of almost complete togetherness. We walked farther and farther. She still took her sketch pad, but often just breathed the air and absorbed her surroundings. I introduced her to the methods of sniffing for creatures, and smelling the earth to find my way. Her nose wasn’t very good, but she got the idea. It was our times in the snow that I will remember best, though. All bundled up, she looked more like the indigenous people imbedded in my memory genes. In fact she seemed to have some she-wolf in her. Once in a while we would both howl at the moon in an attempt scare Dad as he worked at his desk inside.
The wild world is full of scary creatures, but none match those lurking in our house. As I’ve mentioned, I don’t like machines. These monsters challenge me as much as any badger would. I don’t have to sleep with the big ones in the basement any more, but there are machines all over the house at Lone Pine. Dad is a gadget nut. He has something mechanical running all the time. Mostly it’s a quiet sounding thing that he is forever fingering and starring into as it hums. He calls it a computer and Mom hates it. I think she’s jealous of its attraction for Dad. I don’t mind it too much, because it keeps him in his den a lot and out of trouble most of the day. It’s when he goes outside that the noise and commotion really begins. I will tell you more about this later, but suffice it to say he is the original Mr. Gadget.
Mom is more likely to use paint brushes and needles to do her work, but she sits at a sewing machine a lot. It whirs, but doesn’t seem too threatening. It stays in one place and has never moved in my direction. It’s when a machine whips around and tries to attack me that I get defensive. My biggest enemy is the vacuum cleaner. I hate these loud, sucking monsters.
Mom is usually the one who gets the vacuum out of the closet and starts it up. It makes a terrible sound and sucks up everything in its path. I bite the monster, but it is so hard I can’t even make a dent. Mom has tried to explain that it won’t hurt me, if I just stay out of it’s way. That would be admitting defeat, though. I’ve tried everything to get a hold of the thing. So Mom decided that the vacuum and I need a truce. She lets me go outside on the deck and chase squirrels while she pushes the vacuum around in the house.
Over time I have come to tolerate most of the machines in the house, but I can’t imagine why humans live with these monsters. They make so much noise, and often keep the humans from enjoying each other’s company.
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