My ‘gotta try it’ imp has been dormant of late, as winter puts a brake on some of my odder habits. For example: I like to climb trees to see the world in a fresh way. Snow and ice discourage that. Yet, as Bryn and I walked around the block at 5 a.m. for her constitutional, we stopped to gape at the enormous pile of snow in front of Central Grade School, towering as high as the second story of that sturdy, beautiful building. I itched to climb to its top. It wasn’t a tree, but it was an adventure for this impetuous soul.
Bryn and I traded glances. Yeah, I was alone, wearing a white winter coat, and Bryn is mostly snow-white, so we blended too well with the terrain -and it was dark and really early- but hey! That Big Bump begged to be bested. Besides, sensible folk were asleep, so I could be reckless in peace.
Rats! I had no gloves, but never mind.
I chose a place to start. Bryn led the way. Fine, I thought. She can help to pull me higher in those places that are overly steep and icy.
She was delighted, an immediately sank her claws into the slick, snowy surface. I followed close behind, feeling for toe depressions. Up I went, a bit at a time, the taut leash on one wrist, my bare hands helping with balance. Bryn looked back and slowed her ascent as I muttered, “Wait- not too fast...”
And within a minute we were on top of the world.
Very cool! I surveyed the area from up there, feeling a bit smug. “Well, I haven’t blended into my easy chair, yet...”
We carefully made our way along the monster’s slippery spine as it wound itself around the grounds, and eventually found a spot where we could sit, gaze, and then carefully climb down again. A solicitous Bryn took the lead again, adjusting her rate of descent to mine.
She really is an intuitive doggie.
The experience was challenging enough to raise my pulse a bit.
Was it unwise to climb in the pitch dark?
Didn’t care.
Would do it again.
I get pretty tired of staying within what’s considered proper behavior, just because I’m elderly. I’d rather feel free to indulge my 11-year old self with minimal repercussions. I’m still fit, and reasonably athletic. I like a bit of adventure. And, if I’m still sentient down the road, I’ll remember these little conquests as I fade to gone, and grin.
**
Two-year old Bryn is just as prone to impulsive decisions.
Recently, in December’s above-freezing, snowless winter weather, she walked with Joe and me on a sidewalk right next to the Saginaw River at one of the Bay City parks that line this vigorous, wide, north-flowing maritime route. (A few North American rivers do flow north.)
The large expanse of grass growing inside the sidewalk’s perimeter was truly disgusting. Huge, gelatinous grey goose poop lay everywhere, leaving few places for ‘higher’ animals with better bathroom habits to trod. Even navigating the sidewalk was tricky. Ugh. The geese hadn’t bothered to fly to warmer climes yet, as it was still not terribly cold here. Why waste the energy? So they’d hung around to nibble the still-viable foliage, poop, honk and paddle about in the calmer eddies, just out of curious Bryn’s reach.
A three-barred steel railing erected next to the park walk kept inattentive passersby from inadvertently falling five feet down into the river.
Just as the pavement curved, a fat, sassy goose way down below honked a challenge. In a blink Bryn had slipped under the lowest bar and jumped down onto a tiny bit of gravelly shoreline to answer it. Big bird flew off in a huff. Now, though, my dog was stranded.
Rats! How could we get her back up to the path again? That five-foot high cement wall was sheer! Then, before I could prevent it, she tried to hop back up to us, but banged her head on that same bar before falling backward to land on her back. I saw a flicker of alarm as she righted herself and realized the situation. Worried now, she moved up and down the miniature shore, seeking another escape route. We could see none.
Bother! I’d have to drop down too, by slithering under the same bar. I’d boost 51-pound Bryn high enough so that Joe could grab her harness and pull her back to safety. He’d have to haul me up as well. The task would be awkward, and tough on his fresh knee replacement.
As I made ready to descend Joe walked about 50 feet further on, then leaned way over the bars to peer down and under. “Hey, Dee; water’s there, but just a few inches deep. These huge boulders disappear under the walkway. But she might be able to scramble up them.” To Bryn it looked like an uneven, massive wall. But maybe she might find enough toeholds... We’d ask her to try.
I moved past Joe to catch Bryn’s eye. “Bryn, come!” She howled once in despair and moved toward the boulder mountain, but then lost heart and retreated to her tiny patch of flat, gravelly ground. The stones did look formidable. So I trotted down the park path a little distance, then stopped at an invisible beeline she could aim for, and, keeping my voice calm and confident, shouted, “It’s OK. The water’s shallow there. Come.”
Calmer now, she studied the situation. Oh. I must climb those big stones to come to you... “Bryn, you can do this. Come!” The poor dog ran back and forth a few more times, but could find no other reasonable options.
So she went for it.
I called encouragement as she chose a crack here, a depression there, moving sideways, then up, up and sideways, scrabbling for purchase on the next boulder... There was only one gasper, when she misjudged a foothold and lost ground half way up, but then, with a mighty effort, she managed to recover and heave herself up and over the last huge stone! We cheered as Bryn shook herself, licked one paw briefly and came to me, relieved and happy.
What can one say about impulsive acts like these? Nothing too bad, I hope... They do add a certain rich unpredictability to life.
If one isn’t impulsive at times, one doesn’t have a pulse.