Flying Dogs and Other Circus Acts

I should have known he’d jump. It wasn’t like I hadn’t been warned.  Like the time he was  four months old and jumped off the back deck. His dad had just walked out of the basement and in his excitement, the pup took the shortest route down. Splat. Just like Bambi on ice. He looked a little surprised for a second, but got right back up and carried on like it never happened. I nearly lost my lunch.

This was going to be my “do everything right” dog. I’ve raised plenty of dogs, but I never had much concern about how they turned out. Sure, I trained them and for the most part they all wound up to be great companions. But I never really had any high expectations for any of them. They came when called, behaved in most situations and were basically considered to be obedient, well-rounded family pets. What more could one want?

Then I got an Australian Cattle Dog. What a difference a breed can make! Like many, I got my first taste of this breed at a local stable.  The owner had a couple of Cattle Dogs who were always lurking about in the shadows. One used to sleep under the saddle tree in the tack room and would come lunging out the minute your arms were fully loaded with heavy tack. And then there was the older male I mowed down in the indoor arena. I was practicing a reining pattern on a very hot horse and for some reason, the dog chose that very moment to cross the arena to be with his master. I saw a blur of movement and heard a sharp, high pitched yelp as he tumbled ass-over-tea kettle under the horse. With lightening quick reflexes he was back on his feet and zipping away, none the worse for wear. I apologized profusely, to which the owner said, “Don’t worry about it. He knows better.” That night I left thinking to myself, “I gotta get me one of those dogs!” It took awhile, but eventually I was the proud, albeit tired owner of two Cattle Dogs.

So there I was, out hiking with my red boy. He was my youngest and had been hiking the woods with me since he was a pup.  I had taken plenty of time to let his body and mind mature, then slowly built up his endurance until he had grown into a wonderful hiking partner that I could trust to stay close even off leash. He often zig-zaged a few yards ahead, but he seldom ventured far enough away to alarm me. Occasionally a chipmunk or bird would tempt him off the main trail, but he was rarely out of my sight for more than a few seconds. The New England woods are dense and he was taught at a young age that if he couldn’t see me then he’d better high tail-it back to me PDQ. Special treats made this a game that he grew to love, so he’s pretty motivated to keep me in his sight at all times.

That particular spring morning was perfect for hiking; cool, sunny, and absent the weekend warriors that detract from our love of solitude. We got an early start down the converted rail trail that runs along our property. My plan was to follow the public hiking trail for about two miles before veering off on a less populated path. It was early enough in the day that the chance of encountering other hikers was slim, but I kept him by my side for a bit just to be sure. When I was sure the coast was clear I gave Hazer the release command and he sprang ahead, anxious to lead the way. I laughed at his enthusiasm and for the umpteenth time, wished I had his youth and athleticism. Instead, I set off at my usual brisk pace, knowing it wouldn’t be long before he would relax and close the gap between us.

We crossed the wide expanse of an old Viaduct that rose high above a swampy vista.  A thick veil of fog hovered over the water, obscuring the view of a large, sprawling beaver dam and a flock of noisy Canadian geese. Soon the mist would burn off and it would turn into a crystal-clear, picturesque spring day. The trees were just beginning to flower and I wished I’d remembered to bring my camera. But I didn’t want to turn back to fetch it. I could take pictures another time.

After crossing the open viaduct the old rail bed re-enters the woods and continues alongside a clear rushing brook. The woods on both sides of the trail is protected by a land trust and has grown dense with thick underbrush and standing timber. There is always the possibility that we might spot or startle wildlife if we are  the only hikers to pass that way recently. Hazer and I are often treated to a glimpse of an amazing assortment of wildlife on our daily outings.

About a mile into the hike we began to enter a long corridor where steep cliffs start to rise sharply on both sides of the trail.  You can still see the scars where the ledge was drilled and blasted to make way for the rail bed below. Wide gutters run along the base of the rock and catch the orange runoff that weeps from the ore year-round. At the onset of the cliffs there is a broad thicket of Mountain Laurel. This is our state flower, which is actually more of a wild flowering shrub than a flower. It was here that Hazer paused, then took a sharp right onto a  faint path that cut into the heart of the dense vegetation. Any deer that had used this path recently would be long gone by now, so I didn’t object to a little impromptu exploration off the main trail. I slowed my pace, but continued to move ahead while keeping an ear trained on my dog. As was his habit, I knew he would come bounding up from behind any second.

I walked for about a minute, but when he didn’t reappear shortly I stopped and turned around. No dog was visible on the trail behind. Not worried, I called and listened again. I could hear a faint rustling in the dry leaves behind the ledge on my left. Confident that Hazer was retracing his steps, I turned and started walking again. I was sure he would overtake me in a moment. But I hadn’t gone far when I realized that my dog was not making his way back to me. I stopped and strained to hear any sound that would pinpoint his exact location. I called his name a few times, but the echo of my voice just bounced off the steep walls of the surrounding cliffs. I was just about to start retracing my own steps when I heard something large crashing through the dry underbrush at the top of the cliffs on my right. I looked up and saw my dog.

I’m not exactly sure when the icy dread of fear hit me. When I first saw him I was just relieved to know where he was, but my relief quickly vanished when I realized that he was trying to find a way down from the ledge. Why he didn’t just retrace his steps I’ll never know, but I froze in place as he took a tentative step closer to the edge. I didn’t dare move for fear that he might panic and do something foolish in haste.  I forced myself to push that thought aside. I knew my dog was a woods-smart, experienced hiker who had shown an innate ability to resolve some pretty complex challenges in a variety of situations. On one level I had to believe that he would use his good instincts and skills and find a safe way down, but something about his posture alarmed me. He was dangerously close to the edge and showing no fear or sign of turning back. I was afraid to say his name, so I shouted, “Go back! Go back!” several times, praying silently that he would listen and remember the numerous times we had worked on that command in the past. He knew what I was asking him to do and I could see that he was torn. If he backed up and retraced his steps, he would have to lose sight of me. He looked me in the eye, then looked at the trail below. I could almost see his mental wheels turning as he stood coiled, weighing his options. In the blink of an eye his expression changed and instinctively, I knew he had made his decision. His face stretched into a goofy grin and I watched in horror as my dog confidently stepped into thin air!

Scroll back up to the picture at the top and click on it twice. That’s my boy sitting close to where he landed, at the base of the ledge where he jumped. Like a lead balloon, he dropped well over two stories. I honestly don’t know how he survived. He did a perfect swan dive off the highest peak of ledge, cleared several outcroppings, and landed front feet first in the muddy water-filled drainage ditch at the base of the cliff. Paralyzed with fear, I couldn’t move or breathe. How on earth was I going to carry my broken dog home? As I stood thinking this very thought, Hazer jumped out of ditch, shook himself hard, then came bounding over to me like nothing happened. With knees weakened by a flood of adrenaline, I slumped to the ground and immediately began running my hands over what I was sure would be a battered body. I was checking for compound fractures, dislocated joints, cuts, abrasions … anything! I didn’t dare let myself think that my dog had just taken a massive fall and might actually walk away muddy, but unscathed.

But he did.

They say Cattle Dogs are a little bit like cats. Well, one life down, eight more to go!

March 6, 2010 | Categories: Dogs | Tags: animals, canine, dogs, hiking, photography | 2 Comments