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Where's Travvy? Where's Susanna?May 10, 2009 Yeah, I know, I know: it's been a long silence. Thanks to everyone who's bugged me about it. I'm working on the sourdough piece for Trivia, and it seems to have turned into at least three pieces: one for Trivia about whether lesbians have gone extinct (and why it matters that we don't), one about sourdough for a local food magazine, and one about why we need an independent feminist movement, which I'm writing as if it'll appear in something like The Nation or The American Prospect or Ms. More about all that later, like in a couple of days. I've also got plenty to do editing-wise, and then there's looking after the horse and the dog . . . Anyway, this is about the dog. This morning Travvy e-mailed a Mother's Day greeting to his mama, Mayhem, back at Masasyu Alaskan Malamute Kennels in Canandaigua, New York. It went like this:
Mama Mayhem and Mama Lori wrote back. They said go ahead and send the fur and Lori would spin it for me. Even a full, well-compressed grocery bag of malamute undercoat probably won't spin into enough yarn to actually knit or crochet anything, but I'm going to do it anyway. Lori told Travvy she was glad he was being such a good boy. "Hunh," I said to Travvy. "If you're such a good boy, how come two pads on your front paw are stuck together with chewing gum?" The wad of chewing gum was in the little wastebasket under my desk. I went out for a couple of hours. When I got home, the apartment looked pretty much the way I'd left it, except that the little wastebasket was lying on its side and assorted biscuit wrappers, papers, burnt matches, and spent tea bags were scattered on the rug. And the furry inside of Trav's forepaw was gooey with dead chewing gum. Mostly Trav is so good when he's left home alone that I don't mind a knocked-over wastebasket or two. No one ever sits in the chair next to my desk, but it is a crucial part of my filing system. Sometimes I'd sometimes come home to reference books, manuscript pages, catalogues, and clothes that weren't quite dirty enough for laundry on the floor next to the chair; the phone, which usually rested on one arm of the chair, would be on the floor and off the hook. I suspected Travvy, of course, but I couldn't figure out what he was doing, especially since the treats in my jeans pocket were never touched. Then one day I was editing away when the big brown UPS truck pulled into the driveway. The sound woke Travvy from a deep sleep; within moments he had climbed up on the chair to get a better view. Wait long enough and all will be revealed. Now I keep the phone on the floor. The last couple of weeks it's been "When he was good, he was very, very good, but when he was bad he was horrid." Since the evening he went so AWOL that we had to miss dog class, it's been "pony only" when we go trail-riding. It's back-to-basics in the recall department; either that or get a GPS for his collar so I can locate whatever pile of deer guts he's chowing down at. This has not, however, prevented him from getting into trouble. One sunny Saturday, neighbor David was out in the yard working on his current multi-weekend project: rebuilding a tree platform that is eight or ten feet above the ground. Daughters Willa and Ava were helping. With Trav on leash, I went over to check on their progress. The girls pointed out a baby rabbit that was hanging out under a bench. Its head and ears were moving, a little, but it's rare for any wild rabbit to be that still in close proximity to so much human activity. It was probably sick or injured; the pressure was on to bring it inside and try to nurse it back to health. Willa asked if she could take Travvy's leash. Travvy is very strong and probably outweighs Willa, who is finishing up fourth grade, but his leash behavior is pretty good. She went off to see what Travvy could do in the sit-down-stay department. David and I talked. You already know what's coming: Travvy, having demonstrated his sit-down-stay skills, was wandering around with the leash dragging. He strayed close to the bench. He noticed the bunny an instant before I noticed him. Too late. He made short work of the bunny. Ava was distraught. It was a couple of days before she would speak to Travvy again. David, I suspect, was relieved that the "let's nurse the bunny back to health" project had been derailed. Two days later we were up at the barn. I had Trav on his leash, but I was scratching Allie's and Zahara's faces and not paying attention. Trav yanked the leash out of my hand and took off after the white rooster. I took off after him, hampered first by the wire fence and then by the wall alongside the driveway: rooster and dog jumped off it, but human had to run around, then up the steps to the front door. Trav caught the rooster. I caught Trav with his mouth full of white feathers. The first wonder was that when I yelled "Drop it!" Travvy dropped it. The second wonder was that the rooster got to his feet and ran away. We had no idea how badly he was injured. I felt terrible and offered to pay for the damage, veterinary care or a new rooster. The da Silvas were more understanding than I probably would have been. The next day I left Travvy at home. When I got to the barn, there was no sign of the white rooster, who had been such a striking and elegant sight in the yard and pasture. Uh-oh. A little later, while doing chores, I found him: he had settled in Z's manger. He didn't look happy but he was definitely alive. The next few days he spent under a neighbor's porch, where the hens occasionally range in search of insects and other good stuff. He was depressed: he'd had a very bad week, starting with the day that the #2 rooster beat him up and took charge of the flock and culminating in a near-death experience in Travvy's mouth. He seems to be doing OK now, though. Gene put him in the coop with the new youngsters and one of the hens. The coop has a little fenced-in yard. The other rooster can't get in. Mr. White, as I call him, is taking more interest in the world. So that incident ended much better than it might have done, but as far as I was concerned the feathers on the ground were handwriting on the wall: this situation was great for me and great for Allie, but it wasn't going to work for Travvy. He's been amazingly good since he settled in, though the mangled seat and seat belt in my pickup testify to what he did before he settled in. On his tether he watches the hens come and go but doesn't try to get at them; I can lead him in one hand and Allie in the other and shepherd them both through the gate. But it was only a matter of time before my attention drifted and he pulled hard both at the same time. We needed a new barn without free-ranging chickens. We seem to have found one: a great situation not far from where we are now. All's well that ends well, but that isn't to say that it won't make you tear your hair out in the process.
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