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ChanceSeptember 14, 2008 I've been dicing with the apparently ubiquitous advice that [fill in the breed] dogs can never be allowed off-leash because of [fill in the appropriate genetically based and training-resistant characteristic]. So far, so good, but I won't say it hasn't led to a couple of nerve-racking moments. Yesterday Trav and I went for two walks with our friends Jim and Jake, both Springers, and Pip the 10-pound wonder dog, one at midday, the other at suppertime. Actually Jim exercised his prerogatives as very senior citizen to stay home on the late afternoon walk, and this changed the dynamics between Trav and Jake, who's young but not a puppy. Ordinarily they get along but that's about it. Last night they were running buddies. As usual I kept Trav on-leash as we walked along the short, (very) minor road that leads to the woods and then till we got past the path that Trav likes to make a beeline down, ever since he discovered that the house at the end of the path had a dog in it. I let him go, and within minutes he and Jake were bounding through the woods and underbrush on both sides of the trail, Jake in the lead. After doing some bounding of her own, Pip settled into her customary place, trotting briskly at my heels. So far, so good, like I said. Then the rambunctious boys bounded off into Greenlands, a patch at the northern edge of the state forest that butts up against Checama Path, on the other side of which my friend Elaine lives with several Friesians, a Thoroughbred, Tillo the German shepherd, and Mike, Elaine's husband. Then silence -- except, of course, for me calling "Travvy! Where's Travvy? Come here, Jake!" There was no answer. Uh-oh. I kept walking, Pip right behind me, pondering my next move. Turn back and go bushwacking for two four-leggeds who can run faster than I and not shred their skin on brambles and briars? Return to Carole's house with two dogs fewer than I started out with? Call Elaine to see if Tillo had a couple of male visitors? After a couple of minutes of walking and intermittent calling, I heard rustling in the brush: Jake emerged on the trail, racing in my direction. Alone. Christ on a moped. I knew I was going to have the next front-page disastrous dog case on Martha's Vineyard. Travvy was going to get lost. Travvy was going to discover the joys of chicken chasing, and the gastronomic delights of hen sushi. Travvy was going to get shot. True, I couldn't think of any livestock closer than the alpacas at the alpaca farm and sheep, llamas, and chickens on the other side of the Stoney Hill Road -- but as the dog runs these are not all that far away. There were horses closer by, but Travvy knows horses; he might get himself killed trying to play with them, but he isn't likely to cause them grief. Not by himself, at any rate: in the company of his northern-breed kind is another story. Then out of the scrub appeared my 60-pound puppy, every inch of him shouting, Wait for me! Wait for me! Trav hadn't gone off on his own; he'd just been left behind. I gave him a treat and told him effusively what a great puppy he was. The time line that included the possibility of Fellow Traveller being banned from Martha's Vineyard in the imminent future quietly closed, leaving no traces except in my memory. This afternoon Trav came trail riding with Allie and me. Once he was persuaded not to follow the two dogs we met on the trail as we were leaving the farm, he was great. We met two couples walking along the dirt road that leads to George Fisher's field. They wanted to know which way led to the beach. I looked perplexed. "None of 'em," I said. "The nearest beach is at least two miles away. The nearest water is the pond in George Fisher's field, down that way." Their host had given them directions to the beach; something must have got lost in translation. Never mind; they were having a good time, and they all much admired both Allie and Trav, who took the opportunity to sprawl on the ground for a rest. On the way home, a rabbit broke cover near the boat barn and darted under the fence, across the back pasture, and into the woods on the far side. The "far side" is a quasi-farm, but I'm less worried about the two pigs over there than about the several dogs: a beagle, a bloodhound, an old yellow Lab, and a northern-breed mix a few months older than Travvy. They're a pack unto themselves and I don't know how they'd respond to Travvy; so far Trav has only shown mild interest in going over there. Well, he was off after the rabbit and there wasn't much I could do about it, but while I was still dressing Allie's stirrups and loosening her girth in front of the barn, Trav came loping home across the pasture. What I know now is that Trav will come back. I wouldn't know that if I never let him off the leash. I do need to carry a lead rope or a leash when we all go out together, in case Trav needs to be persuaded to part company with a new canine acquaintance, but I'm guessing that with a little practice he'll be like Rhodry: happy to meet and greet and then part. It's like letting your barely licensed kid go off in the car, or like riding off into the woods. Something bad might happen. You might not come home safe and sound, or at all. But that's not reason enough not to take the chance.
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