October 14
What a wonderful night. Despite the advancing season, I can sit and type outside. The sky is black, the stars locked out by thick clouds. Word on the weather radio has it that the Canadians sent another front swooping down for us. Its leading edge is coming through tonight, with rain to herald its arrival. But just north of Shell, WY, the rain hasn’t arrived yet. The barometer is dropping but the night is still calm enough for me to hear Shell Creek rushing, an owl hooting, and Chap whining because I leashed him to the bumper.
A minute ago I had Chap tied to the camper with about 30 feet of parachute cord so he could move around. For awhile he stood and whined because I was typing and not petting him. But then he left me alone. I typed in peace. Toward the end of the last paragraph I heard a jingling that sounded like his collar in the distance. The sound was moving. I set my computer aside and walked back to where I’d tied the cord. I felt for it in the dark. I found the knot, then slid my hand along the cord until I found a severed end. Chap had chewed through my parachute cord. The distant jingling continued. I’ve got Chap on a short, thick leash now. It should take him at least an hour to chew through it.
Evolution shafted Chap when it didn’t give him opposable thumbs. The dog could have used them. As we drove through Graybull tonight he sighed and lay down in the passenger’s seat, and I knew he was bored. We played fetch this morning – I tried to keep the game on land, but Chap looked wistfully out over the Wind River until I capitulated and threw the ball in the water – but since then we’d done little. As we passed out of the city limits I handed Chap his tennis ball to play with. Instead of taking it from my hand he pushed it with his nose. I told him to take the ball, but he refused. Chap is a stubborn dog. He nudged it again. I let go and the ball fell to the floor. Chap jumped onto the floorboard and batted the ball, then seized it between his jaws and carried it like a trophy to the back seat where he could lay on my jacket, his stumpy tail pumping side to side. But fifteen minutes a rustling in the back seat caught my attention. Chap was digging through my clothes and sticking his nose under the seat. He snorted. Then he crawled over the console into the front seat and smelled under the seat again. He lay down and pawed at the cloth. I had to pull over to retrieve the ball for him. A few miles down the road we stopped for gas and when I returned to the truck Chap was sitting upright in his seat. No ball. When I opened the door Chap promptly marched to the crevice between seats where the ball was wedged and pointed to it.
Though Chap may covet the dexterity my thumbs afford, the temperature is dropping and my Raynaud-afflicted hands are slowing. Typing is getting more difficult. Opposable thumbs are great, but they’re no panacea for the ills of existence. Chap’s jealousy is not unrequited. I wish I found spiritual contentment in a fuzzy yellow ball. It is a real skill.
A minute ago I had Chap tied to the camper with about 30 feet of parachute cord so he could move around. For awhile he stood and whined because I was typing and not petting him. But then he left me alone. I typed in peace. Toward the end of the last paragraph I heard a jingling that sounded like his collar in the distance. The sound was moving. I set my computer aside and walked back to where I’d tied the cord. I felt for it in the dark. I found the knot, then slid my hand along the cord until I found a severed end. Chap had chewed through my parachute cord. The distant jingling continued. I’ve got Chap on a short, thick leash now. It should take him at least an hour to chew through it.
Evolution shafted Chap when it didn’t give him opposable thumbs. The dog could have used them. As we drove through Graybull tonight he sighed and lay down in the passenger’s seat, and I knew he was bored. We played fetch this morning – I tried to keep the game on land, but Chap looked wistfully out over the Wind River until I capitulated and threw the ball in the water – but since then we’d done little. As we passed out of the city limits I handed Chap his tennis ball to play with. Instead of taking it from my hand he pushed it with his nose. I told him to take the ball, but he refused. Chap is a stubborn dog. He nudged it again. I let go and the ball fell to the floor. Chap jumped onto the floorboard and batted the ball, then seized it between his jaws and carried it like a trophy to the back seat where he could lay on my jacket, his stumpy tail pumping side to side. But fifteen minutes a rustling in the back seat caught my attention. Chap was digging through my clothes and sticking his nose under the seat. He snorted. Then he crawled over the console into the front seat and smelled under the seat again. He lay down and pawed at the cloth. I had to pull over to retrieve the ball for him. A few miles down the road we stopped for gas and when I returned to the truck Chap was sitting upright in his seat. No ball. When I opened the door Chap promptly marched to the crevice between seats where the ball was wedged and pointed to it.
Though Chap may covet the dexterity my thumbs afford, the temperature is dropping and my Raynaud-afflicted hands are slowing. Typing is getting more difficult. Opposable thumbs are great, but they’re no panacea for the ills of existence. Chap’s jealousy is not unrequited. I wish I found spiritual contentment in a fuzzy yellow ball. It is a real skill.
posted by Jeb Butler at 11:31 AM
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