the fog, the dog, and the justified jog
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a dog subjected to an examination must be in want of a hike.
Thursday's vet visit took a lot out of us. Dennie and I had already been deeply worried about Maisie for some time. While I never sleep much--two to three hours on a "good" night, often less--I hadn't slept a wink in the last forty-eight hours. Then there was the barely conscious hustle to pack provisions and get everyone ready and out the door in punctual fashion, not to mention the uncertainty of meeting new people in a new clinic, not knowing if the place would be a good fit or if we'd feel confident in the doctor's abilities. By the time we'd paid our bill and departed the quaintly rustic building, it was only late morning, yet we felt like we'd run a marathon--without training, stretching, fueling, or resting first.
A nap sounded delicious, but a hike would prove therapeutic, especially for Maisie.
Our dog consistently demonstrates impressive powers of deduction. It's impossible to surprise her with a walk, an outing, a present, an unexpected treat because she picks up on every sound, every scent, every microexpression or change in behavior. She's figured out our intentions long before we say, "Do you want..." whatever fantastic thing we're offering. Of course, I wouldn't have intentionally raised my girl's hopes for something like a doctor's visit, but the moment she saw me pulling my hair up into a ponytail (which I only do when we go hiking), her tongue was flopping out an open-mouthed grin, her tail was wagging wildly, and she was already facing the door with animated expectation of the thrilling words that were to follow. Only they didn't.
We were going to the vet, and no dog jumps for joy to receive news so bleak as that.
During the course of our stay, she'd had her eyelids held open, her jowls peeled back for closer inspection, her tail lifted (which she hates), her spine tested. She'd had each of her legs tugged and gently rotated to appraise her range of movement. Her belly and internal organs had been pressed and squeezed, and, thrice, a needle pricked her front leg to draw out blood. Maisie's unease had been evident throughout her ordeal, but she'd demonstrated incredible courage and was more willing to let them proceed than she had been with her previous doctor. As we walked out the door, our dog's disquiet morphed into relief that then transitioned into the blues. All this poking and prodding had been piled on top of the ultimate disappointment: the adventure she'd thought her pony-tailed mom was taking her on was, in fact, a trip to her least favorite place to go.
It was mildly chilly and lightly raining, but we couldn't let her down. The three of us climbed into the car with our backpack full of snacks, hydration, and other supplies and traveled through impressive, ethereal ribbons of dense fog that wrapped around our local evergreens and mountains like great mystical gifts. Winding deeper into the woods, higher into the hills, we arrived at the lake. We were the only ones there.
Unless you count the geese.
Two large migrating flocks had scattered over the playground lawn. There must have been thirty or forty of them, at least. As we ambled along the shore, one male stood up tall, flapped his wings and honked repeatedly, signaling his flock to take flight. They soared right past us, low over the water to the far end of the lake before skimming the glassy surface and landing in almost perfect unison. A few minutes later, another male in the other flock exhibited the same behaviors. The remaining geese took off in familiar fashion, joining their traveling companions for a swim in the distance.
The three of us ambled onward, Maisie urgently guiding us from one fascinating scent to another...and by "guiding us", I mean hurrying us along at an unnaturally brisk pace to prevent any of those odors from dissipating before we got there. What began as a light rainfall grew steadier by the minute, culminating in a moderate-to-heavy shower that left our girl more drenched than she was willing to tolerate. She promptly led us back to the drier environs of our vehicle...and by "led us", I mean pulling us into a forced sprint to escape the rain.
Our hike was greatly abbreviated--with a somewhat disproportionate speed-to-fatigue ratio--but at least Maisie got a little exercise, a little fresh air, and the kind of anxiety-relieving adventure that every ponytail promises and any Dr. Mommy worth her salt wholeheartedly prescribes.
As we began this journey with a variation on one of Jane Austen's most memorable opening lines, I'll close it with the kind of humor only a true Austenphile can appreciate. Talk about a justified jog. (Rain is but a trifle next to Elizabeth Bennet's predicament.)