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Let ’em run

By G.D. Maxwell "My dog’s better than your dog, My dog’s better than yours." Zippy the Dog made me say that. It’s a jingle he heard on television once and still hums. Zippy likes to think he’s a "good" dog.

By G.D. Maxwell

"My dog’s better than your dog,

My dog’s better than yours."

Zippy the Dog made me say that. It’s a jingle he heard on television once and still hums. Zippy likes to think he’s a "good" dog. It’s part of his inbred Lab neurosis. While he’s one of the most aloof dogs I know, he can’t shake the "good dog" thing. He wants to be a good dog. He needs to hear he’s a good dog… over and over again… endlessly and most often following behaviour verging on criminal. After food, treat, Kong, ball and walk, good dog’s what he likes to hear most. It’s pathetic, really. But endearing.

Whistler is a dog town and, let’s face it, dogs are pretty cool animals, especially Whistler dogs. If you don’t believe it, getcha self out to the parade and DogFest this weekend. Wear old shoes.

Whistler dogs are usually big dogs and that’s in their favour. I’ve only seen a couple of small Whistler dogs. I don’t know if small dogs are just so déclassé no one who has them lets them out or if they all get eaten by larger animals. Small dogs usually aren’t too street savvy.

Whistler dogs never wear leashes unless bylaw officers are lurking nearby. Like neckties on men and panty hose on women, leashes are tight, uncomfortable and not at all Whistler. If left to our own devices, none of us would ever buy ties or panty hose and I’m sure dogs would never buy leashes.

This, of course, leads to some problems, most of which have been well publicized. Dogs do unpredictable things. They dart out in front of cars; some die prematurely. They dart out in front of bikers and bladers, some of whom crash to the Valley Trail. They scare the bejesus out of visiting, city dogs who’ve never had a taste of leashless life. They perform bodily functions when and where they wish. Big deal.

I think bikers or bladers – myself included – who get taken out by a dog have only themselves to blame. Dogs are like cars. You never know what they’ll do next. If you choose to barrel along, oblivious to the distinct possibility that the dog further up the trail may, or probably will, dart out in front of you or jump up and lick your face, you’re dumber than a Chihuahua. Pay attention. Anticipate. Enjoy.

"If dogs run free,

Why not me."

Maybe it’s something that harkens back to a more primitive, collective memory time, but free-range dogs give me a warm, fuzzy feeling. They look like they’re having a lot of fun. They remind me of my childhood when I’d roam the neighbourhood, collect a pack of friends, and spend the day wandering, playing, and doing whatever else popped into our heads. It was probably dangerous, careless and irresponsible and if they’d had any sense at all, my parents would have kept me on a leash in the back yard, but damn, we had fun.

Some dogs don’t have it so good. Take the Devil Dog, for example.

A couple of years ago, Martin, my Perfect Partner and I decided to celebrate the Perseid meteor shower that streams through the nightsky every August. Martin, an old friend, and I have run in numerous packs together and enjoyed many Perseid shows over the years, usually in the high deserts of New Mexico where we grew up.

This particular year, Martin suggested we go to a spot in the Bisti Wilderness in northwest New Mexico where he’d taken some painting students one year. Martin’s strong suit is neither directions nor memory and I was perplexed as to how we could drive into the wilderness on a road he swore was there. After all, the very definition of wilderness embraces a total lack of vehicles.

The explanation was simple. Bisti had only recently been designated wilderness and we couldn’t. Those who know him refer to incidents like that as being "martinized," not to be confused with the drycleaning technique.

The Bisti is one of those mythical places New Mexico is full of. In this case, it is a sculpted badlands of pastel-coloured sandstone and mud canyons, hoodoos, and unearthly, eroded rock formations. Dinosaur bones abound and spirits of creation haunt every twist and turn of the serpentine canyons. A perfect meteor watching place.

Sure enough, when we finally found the right dirt road, it stopped at a strong, barbed-wire fence at the wilderness boundary. "I could’ve sworn..." is the way Martin starts a lot of sentences. This was one of those times.

The night was cool and pitch black, illuminated only by billions and billions of stars and a sugar coating of Milky Way spiralling across the sky. Wherever we were seemed the right place to be so we set up our bivouac, mixed up a pitcher of martinis and went to work watching meteors.

After a couple of hours of fair to moderate meteor frequency, Martin was getting restless. "You guys really should see this place. Let’s walk in, it’s only a mile or so."

"Or so," is usually a good indication not to listen to what Martin has to say. But we agreed and set off on what was left of the dirt road on the other side of the barbed-wire. What was left of the road was nothing: a gestalt, a dim indentation where the sagebrush wasn’t quite as big as what surrounded it.

We squinted and followed our peripheral vision; real men don’t use flashlights. Twenty minutes passed, forty-five, an hour.

"Must be just ahead," Martin reassured.

"What was that?" we froze.

I was sure something had moved but I couldn’t see anything. We waited. Nothing. We moved forward.

"Grrrrrrrrrrl"

"What the f....."

"Grrrrrrrrrrl"

Straining in the darkness, nothing was visible. But it sounded big and bad. It could have been a dog, a coyote, even a wolf. Or a… Devil Dog.

"Grrrrrrrrrrl"

I felt in my pockets. No knife, no weapon. My hands held an empty martini glass. Maybe the dog was thirsty.

"Grrrrrrrrrrl"

Minutes, hours, lifetimes, passed. Then the earth started to move. We felt the vibrations before we heard the sounds. THUMPA-DE-THUMPA-DE-THUMP.

"Oh shit!"

"GRRRRRRRL" THUMPA-DE-THUMPA-DE-THUMP.

Nothing to do but make our peace.

"GRRRRRRRL" THUMPA-DE-THUMPA-DE-THUMP.

Slowly, a dim large form took shape at the limit of our vision. It was BIG! REALLY BIG!

Then, it was recognizable. A horse. A horse being herded by a dog. The Devil Dog. It was a paint pony and a shepherd dog, grazing on the scrub and sage in the Bisti. Scaring the martini out of us in the coal black, New Mexico night.

We decided not to go any farther and slunk back to civilization’s side of the fence. We were relieved and chastened. We were amused. We needed more martinis.

But I still like dogs running free.