Anything that can go wrong, will.
Murphy’s Law
Bryn and I decided to explore the edge of Saginaw Valley State University’s northern border, where neatly mowed lawn abruptly changed to a forest full of brambles and thick, messy, burr-infested undergrowth. That afternoon a largish pond on the manicured side hosted conversational ducks. Its opaque water reflected ever-changing clouds, dark with snowy promise, moving silently over the leafless landscape. It was lovely. (Unfortunately, though, the wind was gusting to 20-30 knots.)
Bryn was not leashed, as she always sticks close to me.
Dummy! There is no ‘always.’
Joe’s and I had had a close encounter of the third kind with three deer while driving in this very area only one week ago. (Read last week’s column.) Deer were everywhere around here. But did I think through the consequences of leaving Bryn’s leash off?
No.
Delighted with all the new scents she dashed 40 feet away just once to snatch up a good-sized stick to drop at my feet. Toss it, Boss! As I reached for it she became as stiff as the stick, staring at the tree line about 200 feet away. So I looked there, too.
Then, before I could process why she’d alerted, she bolted toward a huge buck who’d noticed her from a distance while grazing and decided to retreat while he could.
Too late. Big bounds toward the forest had betrayed his large presence. Bryn flew after him on winged paws: in a blink she and the buck had vanished into the woody undergrowth.
Oh, NO! Calling over and over I ripped into the woods, leaping over fallen branches and flapping through brambles, trying to determine which way they’d gone. There were no visual clues; just acres of trees and vegetation dressed in tattered brown.
After a bit I stopped crashing through the forest to listen.
Silence.
Then, a long minute later, a singe white, fleecy Bryn-bounce caught my eye for an instant, about half a mile away.
I ran toward the spot, furious with myself for letting this happen.
Another unwelcome thought: Some over-eager bow hunter might shoot one- or both- of us... Even as that image flitted past my brain I dismissed it. No way would I back off.
Suddenly, faaaar away, a dot of white bounced skyward again, for just an instant. Boing! She was trying to locate the buck over tall, dry weeds and past multiple trees. As I pursued her I discerned a pattern. She’d bounce about 30 yards due east, after which she’d reverse to ‘boing’ directly west for the about the same distance. Each long, roughly rectangular sweep took her further away.
This situation couldn’t continue. A rough road lay a mile further north: roads attracted cars.
Murphy’s Law was front and center.
Idiot!
I called repeatedly, but my powerful shouts were enfeebled by the capricious wind. Bryn, no doubt panting as she raced through meadows and woods, would hear nothing.
God, she was such a bright target!
Finally, my legs like lead, I couldn’t run and leap-hop any more. I stopped, panting, to shout her name over and over.
Surely Bryn had to be tiring, too. The buck had effectively hidden, so she’d stop to listen intently and sniff the air. In fact, this might be happening now, because there were no further flash-bounces or weed-bending disturbances out there that I could discern.
I called again and again, despairing, and finally a snow-flake-sized white dot bounced in place, waaay off in the distance! Was she trying to pinpoint my voice? Thank heaven for that distinctive coat! Brown fur would have blended in perfectly with the windy, dull brown, tumble-leafed landscape.
I waved and yelled... But she’d disappeared again. Oh, Lord! If the buck had taken fright again to seek sanctuary in even more distant wilderness Bryn would certainly follow.
And that would be that. She’d be lost.
I had to turn back to get the car - if I could remember where 'back' was...
Idiot! For want of a leash....
Yet, I remained rooted for a long time, calling, calling, hoping, hoping, and finally- I heard- ?Bryn? rustling my way- or was it the buck? I’d settle for either at this point.
It was Bryn! Materializing about 100 feet away she paused in a brambly clearing. Her coat was a thick tangle of burrs and a million little sticks. Entwined dried leaves hung from her muzzle to her fringed legs and tail, swaying drunkenly in the wind. Her long, pink tongue hung to one side as she panted, head cocked, trying to assess my mood.
Was I angry?
I dropped to my knees, called- and she came in a rush, hearing ‘glad.’ Ah, God, she felt so good to hug, even with half the forest wound into her fleece. Worn out, we slowly picked through the rough terrain, reached mowed ground, then the more distant parking lot. Bryn had to stop frequently to snap at her hind legs and rump and probe for burrs embedded in her paws.
This misadventure had actually ended well. But I’d had to be thoroughly frightened into resolving to do the reasonable, deer-seasonable thing during future jaunts.
A final note: for 37 years we’d debated whether to spend money on a 150-foot length of chain length fence to finish securing our three-acre farm’s treed yard, already 95% encircled.
Now that Bryn is part of our family, the fence-sitting ends.
Our priority- safety through security- is perfectly clear.
Murphy’s Law
Bryn and I decided to explore the edge of Saginaw Valley State University’s northern border, where neatly mowed lawn abruptly changed to a forest full of brambles and thick, messy, burr-infested undergrowth. That afternoon a largish pond on the manicured side hosted conversational ducks. Its opaque water reflected ever-changing clouds, dark with snowy promise, moving silently over the leafless landscape. It was lovely. (Unfortunately, though, the wind was gusting to 20-30 knots.)
Bryn was not leashed, as she always sticks close to me.
Dummy! There is no ‘always.’
Joe’s and I had had a close encounter of the third kind with three deer while driving in this very area only one week ago. (Read last week’s column.) Deer were everywhere around here. But did I think through the consequences of leaving Bryn’s leash off?
No.
Delighted with all the new scents she dashed 40 feet away just once to snatch up a good-sized stick to drop at my feet. Toss it, Boss! As I reached for it she became as stiff as the stick, staring at the tree line about 200 feet away. So I looked there, too.
Then, before I could process why she’d alerted, she bolted toward a huge buck who’d noticed her from a distance while grazing and decided to retreat while he could.
Too late. Big bounds toward the forest had betrayed his large presence. Bryn flew after him on winged paws: in a blink she and the buck had vanished into the woody undergrowth.
Oh, NO! Calling over and over I ripped into the woods, leaping over fallen branches and flapping through brambles, trying to determine which way they’d gone. There were no visual clues; just acres of trees and vegetation dressed in tattered brown.
After a bit I stopped crashing through the forest to listen.
Silence.
Then, a long minute later, a singe white, fleecy Bryn-bounce caught my eye for an instant, about half a mile away.
I ran toward the spot, furious with myself for letting this happen.
Another unwelcome thought: Some over-eager bow hunter might shoot one- or both- of us... Even as that image flitted past my brain I dismissed it. No way would I back off.
Suddenly, faaaar away, a dot of white bounced skyward again, for just an instant. Boing! She was trying to locate the buck over tall, dry weeds and past multiple trees. As I pursued her I discerned a pattern. She’d bounce about 30 yards due east, after which she’d reverse to ‘boing’ directly west for the about the same distance. Each long, roughly rectangular sweep took her further away.
This situation couldn’t continue. A rough road lay a mile further north: roads attracted cars.
Murphy’s Law was front and center.
Idiot!
I called repeatedly, but my powerful shouts were enfeebled by the capricious wind. Bryn, no doubt panting as she raced through meadows and woods, would hear nothing.
God, she was such a bright target!
Finally, my legs like lead, I couldn’t run and leap-hop any more. I stopped, panting, to shout her name over and over.
Surely Bryn had to be tiring, too. The buck had effectively hidden, so she’d stop to listen intently and sniff the air. In fact, this might be happening now, because there were no further flash-bounces or weed-bending disturbances out there that I could discern.
I called again and again, despairing, and finally a snow-flake-sized white dot bounced in place, waaay off in the distance! Was she trying to pinpoint my voice? Thank heaven for that distinctive coat! Brown fur would have blended in perfectly with the windy, dull brown, tumble-leafed landscape.
I waved and yelled... But she’d disappeared again. Oh, Lord! If the buck had taken fright again to seek sanctuary in even more distant wilderness Bryn would certainly follow.
And that would be that. She’d be lost.
I had to turn back to get the car - if I could remember where 'back' was...
Idiot! For want of a leash....
Yet, I remained rooted for a long time, calling, calling, hoping, hoping, and finally- I heard- ?Bryn? rustling my way- or was it the buck? I’d settle for either at this point.
It was Bryn! Materializing about 100 feet away she paused in a brambly clearing. Her coat was a thick tangle of burrs and a million little sticks. Entwined dried leaves hung from her muzzle to her fringed legs and tail, swaying drunkenly in the wind. Her long, pink tongue hung to one side as she panted, head cocked, trying to assess my mood.
Was I angry?
I dropped to my knees, called- and she came in a rush, hearing ‘glad.’ Ah, God, she felt so good to hug, even with half the forest wound into her fleece. Worn out, we slowly picked through the rough terrain, reached mowed ground, then the more distant parking lot. Bryn had to stop frequently to snap at her hind legs and rump and probe for burrs embedded in her paws.
This misadventure had actually ended well. But I’d had to be thoroughly frightened into resolving to do the reasonable, deer-seasonable thing during future jaunts.
A final note: for 37 years we’d debated whether to spend money on a 150-foot length of chain length fence to finish securing our three-acre farm’s treed yard, already 95% encircled.
Now that Bryn is part of our family, the fence-sitting ends.
Our priority- safety through security- is perfectly clear.