III

Once Upon a Time

Which recalls to mind another time in that same place.  For a town in the middle of Wyoming, bounded by mountains on all sides, with a canyon running out in one direction where the Big Horn River becomes the Wind, Thermopolis has one very lovely river running through.  Especially in the areas far enough from the Hot Springs not to be littered with sulfur foam.  Because its more or less in the middle of nowhere, the water is still reasonably pristine and fishing is a common sport, though both banks in the Canyon are First Nation’s land, so one must be careful where one fishes or partakes in water sports.

Nonetheless, a favourite summer pastime, remembered fondly even by me, who generally has to be dragged out of the house by my hair, was canoeing.  We would take the canoes down to the mouth of the canyon having first parked another car at the point where we planned to stop[1].  From there we’d set out, following the course of the river through sights I can barely remember now, but am increasingly nostalgic for.  Maybe someday when Laurel has children we can all go back there and repeat the journeys.

What writing this has called to mind is our dog Ebony.  The sweet, dachapoo with the low IQ and total failure to understand that poodles were originally bred as water dogs.  The Germans would send them into lakes and ponds after game.[2]  I was elsewhere when the first incident happened, but while Ebony loved to canoe, loved to go anywhere with anyone of us at any time really, evidently on her first trip she leapt with abandon into the river[3], and while a perfectly capable swimmer, promptly freaked out at its resemblance to a cold bath and had to be rescued.

There was another time I recall when we got out to eat lunch[4] and after about five minutes heard her barking frantically.  When she’d jumped out of the canoe, she’d come out about three feet from where she could easily climb to shore and while perfectly capable of swimming those three feet, wouldn’t stop clinging to the side of the canoe to make it to shore.

However, the most memorable moment was the time we were out with our very close family friends from Colorado, who have the distinct characteristic of being quite tall.  “Big” Jon tops 6’ 5” and Little Jon is not far behind.  One day the eight of us plus Ebony were out when, while maneuvering between bridge pylons, one canoe capsized. At 5’ 8”, the water wasn’t quite up to my chest, so there was no actual danger.  It was very wet.

Ebony disproved all my comments about her intelligence by promptly swimming over to Big Jon and climbing up to the top of his head, thus rapidly achieving the highest and safest point.  As many of the canoe trips have devolved into pouring rain and other things that left us soaking wet, this event, as part of the general fun and games for my high school graduation was just par for the course and has become part of our family lore. 

However, it deserves noting here ‘cause it’s also wicked funny.

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[1] Although there were days when this didn’t work out as planned.  But fortunately it’s a very small town and no one ever made me walk to get the car.

[2] I can’t remember where I saw or read it so am utterly failing in my duty to cite, but evidently the goofy haircut for which poodles are famous was to keep their joints and organs warm whilst diving into cold German waters after fallen birds.

[3] To chase some cows on the riverbank if I recall correctly.

[4] As fate would have it, disturbingly down wind from the last resting place of a riverbank cow.

Wyoming Interlude

Wyoming Interlude

The trick in following your sister to a new town for a new job[1] is all in the scheduling.  We had to be out of the duplex by the end of August, Laurel’s job started September 1^st but we couldn’t close on the house until September 15^th.  This meant that we cleared out the place, deposited it all in a storage unit except what she took with her to Seattle and what I needed for two weeks in Thermopolis, Wyoming[2] and then we went our separate ways.

This was especially hard on Loki, who watched her kennel go to Goodwill and her “mommy” drive off while I loaded her in the car and went a different way.  She’s usually a great traveler,[3] but this time she insisted I stop the car and let her out at the first possible turn out.  This is more interesting than it should be when you have two cats in the car who aren’t exactly thrilled to be there.  And then just walked around refusing to “do” anything.

Shortly after that, she knocked Mallory down from where she was perched, letting me know in no uncertain terms that she didn’t want to be driving.  Aside from chasing Mally when Ichabod’s picking on her, Loki was quite protective of this cat[4], so that’s a real sign of her upset.  Until the moment she saw Laurel again[5], Loki did her best not to let me out of her sight.  I’m not as good as Laurel is, but I am at least a fair second best and more familiar than anyone else.

Due to the set up of my parents’ house, which was, ironically for the ease of the pets we grew up with, and incorporated a pet flap into the back of the house, the cats had to be locked in the basement pretty much all the time, unless watched very closely, and all four of us wound up sleeping there at night.

I alternated between trying to figure out some way to get myself set up for finding work when I got to Washington State, without yet effectively being aware of my inability to present myself well on paper[6] and revisiting Thermopolis itself. 

Growing up there wasn’t always fun.  I was too smart for my own good and too uncomfortable with myself for anyone else’s.  I was one of those girls who looks in the mirror and sees someone who appears to be reasonably attractive, but because guys only notice her as someone to help with their English homework, assumed she must be ugly.  This led to some unfortunate relationship decisions that will not be discussed here, or with luck, anywhere else.

It was and is, a small town[7] which is not always the easiest place to grow up.  But at the same time it was safe and secure.  I faced far more danger from the risk of falling off the boulders, hills and trees I spent the days playing than I did from people.  This is not to say those problems are absent in Thermopolis, but, as is typical of towns that size, aside from petty theft and drinking, most of the violence is domestic.  This doesn’t make it any less sad, but when you grow up in a happy family, it does make is safer.

The name Thermopolis comes from the Greek; Thermo = Hot, Polis = City.  It’s not entirely accurate, but I suspect whatever is Greek for “small town” is probably less poetic. This is because it lies on the same fault line as Yellowstone and therefore has what is billed as “the world’s largest mineral hot springs.”  This is not technically a misnomer, as among the mineral hot springs that make up a significant portion of Hot Springs State Park http://www.thermopolis.com/WebPage33.aspx is a structure built up of mineral deposits to a height several stories above the ground.  This was one of my favourite places as a child and teenager.  Far from the maddening crowd as it were, I could be alone without being lonely and wander through the various formations that have formed as a result of all the minerals floating around.

              The town has a Buffalo pasture[8] with real bison – hint, the fences are to keep people out, not the bison in – with a “Devil’s Punchbowl”[9] and several other nifty sights.  All the swimming pools in town are warm, mineral springs, which makes for the fun of being able to swim outside in the winter.  It also meant that our high school swim team prodded buttock in meets.

              This is all relevant because one of the things I did while I was there was walk Hoagie and Loki down by the Wind/Big Horn River, which flows through town.  Because it flows in close proximity to the mineral hot springs, there are numerous areas where the banks have all the usual stuff as well as some mineral run off.  As much as I can get nostalgic about the smell of sulfur, when two dogs frolic in the same water, it leads to two previously very happy dogs under the hose in the backyard before they’re allowed back in the house.  Still, they don’t make the connection.

              The town also has a wonderful little history museum, which is unusually good and well-put=together for its size, http://hschistory.org/.  I really like to visit in when I get the chance.

              In other words, it’s a great place to be from, even if I can’t really imagine going back there to live after having lived in Albuquerque, Billings, Glacier Park, Crater Lake, St. John’s, Newfoundland and now Washington state – variety seems to make the beauty more alluring, but the fact that almost everything there closes by 8p.m. harder to bear.  Still, it was very welcoming and warm while we waited until the time was right for us to go back to Billings and with the – utterly and completely invaluable assistance of Laurel’s friend Jerry and her brother whose name I can’t remember – load up the truck and head out the next day for the adventures waiting in Spanaway, WA.

         Before we left, many funny things happened.  One moreso than most.

              Because this was an unfamiliar area, any time the cats were outside, it had to be under close supervision.  Loki was ok, because Mom built a fence for Hoagie so that he could play in the whole yard.[10]  A fence is nothing to a cat, so there were steps that needed to be taken.  Mally was fairly easy as she would

very

slowly

explore

the

yard

and be out for about half an hour before you could see her getting ready to go over the wall.  So, she’d get about half an hour outside every couple of days.  Not enough for her, but sufficient to keep the crying down to a minimum.

              Ichabod, as in all things, is another story entirely.  His first move upon being let outside was to run for the fence and go over before he could be caught.  This was a lesson learned the hard way the first time I brought him to Thermopolis.  Obviously, he came back, but there were some worrying moments.  Ever since then, the process has been thusly:

              I have one of Hoagie’s old harnesses, which I also use when taking Ichabod to the vet.  The harness itself scares him and therefore keeps him a little more sedate than usual.  Then I would hook up a 100-ft leash I got for Hoagie before Mom finished the fence to my parents drying line. There was another rope lead I could hook onto either end, giving him about two hundred feet.  The other advantage of this set up was that he’d slink around for quite a while before he got used to the umbilicus, meaning that I didn’t have to watch him every second and could read, do laundry or make dinner.

              One night while making dinner, I realized I needed to watch him a little more closely than I was.  Hoagie and Ichabod were both out in the back hanging out.  I was looking out the kitchen window every couple of minutes just be sure.  I don’t know whether I heard or saw something, but suddenly I went very quickly to the back door. 

              Where I found both animals, looking a little frazzled.  Ichabod sans harness.  Which was hanging from one of the trees. 

              I don’t know.  I wish I did.  They’re not talking.

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[1] Ok, when you’re doing it for her job with no idea what you’re going to do once you get there, it’s a little strange, but my ability to sort out my life is strange at best.

[2] Which, while a little unexciting to live in as a person growing up, is really a fairly nifty little town.  Especially if you’re visiting. 

[3] She’s a dog.  It’s a car. 

[4] I mean, actually coming and getting people and letting them know that Mally is crying at the door to be let in and no-one has noticed. 

[5] At which point she promptly forgot I existed.

[6] The realization of this has come as something of a surprise to me, as I have always blindly assumed that I am good at writing due to some awards won as a child and teenager, although one would think that the lack of accolades as I’ve aged would have taught me that I needed to make some changes.  This applies to both fictional writing and my CV/resumes.  Too much telling, not enough showing.  Still working on that.  As you can see.

[7] One of the standing jokes about Wyoming towns is that the population is always lower than the elevation.  This is true for Thermop:  Pop somewhere around 3000, elev close to 5000.  Probably only about 10 towns break this rule.  One of which is Casper, which, contrary to popular belief is NOT the capital of WY.  Cheyenne is.

[8] Ok, technically Bison, but the name has been in place too long for accuracy to outweigh truth.

[9] Wicked deep mineral formation where the limestone has sort of swirled down into a deep pit.

[10] This is what I meant about him being her favourite.

A Hoagie Is So Much More Than Just A Sandwich

Around the same time Ichabod was being born in unknown (at least to me or anyone at the pound) circumstances, a female dog in Casper, WY was being investigated for a possible tumour.  It was large and potentially life threatening and not too very long after the diagnosis was completed, a cesarean section introduced two new puppies into the world.  They were tiny, fluffy, black balls who looked a great deal like their purebred poodle mother when they were born. 

My mother, though she has taken part in the entire pet raising (everything from taking my bottle away from Harry to cleaning out the cat boxes until we were old enough to periodically take responsibility with only moderate whinging) had never had a pet that was all her own.  Hoagie now looks very much like a Silky Terrier, who we must assume was the father and the only evidence of the poodle is a tendency for his hair to be a bit wiry and curl when it’s long.

They all came to stay with us in Billings, MT for Christmas that year as our mother was having knee replacement surgery on the 26^th.  Dad stayed in a hotel near the hospital and we babysat.  Laurel already had a dog and cat in bed with her as well as a day that started at a usual time, while I was still working one of my many part-time jobs[1] and didn’t have to get up as early as she did, so Hoagie crawled in bed with Ichabod and me. 

You might think having a kitten and puppy in one bed would complicate my sleeping.  You would be right.

Most of the time it wasn’t too bad, as Ichabod’s love for dogs, especially for dogs practically the same size as he is and are willing to play kept them reasonably active during the day – except when Loki had to break them up because that’s what she does – and once they calmed down, fairly quiet at night.  More or less.

However, there are fun aspects of puppies.  Even potty-trained ones.  I’d be sleeping with a kitten somewhere on my body and a puppy curled up against me and he’d start twitching and whining.  This was a sign to put on a coat and slippers and go stand outside[2] until he’d done what we came to do.  Then we’d go back to bed and he’d snuggle down under the covers to get warm again. 

Right up until Ichabod would sidle in above him and start poking Hoagie with his paw.  4 a.m.  Poke, poke, poke.  Hijinks ensue.

Lift and separate.  Settle down again.  Poke, poke, poke. 

Fortunately Mom was only in the hospital for a few days.[3]

Before that came the Christmas celebrations with all the animals chasing each other around the house.  Hoagie even survived trying to get Mallory to play tug of war with him with a chew toy.  It was touch and go for minute there.

Since then, they have all been pretty good friends.  When I would go visit my parents and take Ichabod – who is actually a pretty good car traveler, even after he got too big to spend four hours on my lap because I needed to do crazy things like work the brake and gas – they would chase each other around the house growling and snarling and barking and having a terrific time.  Unless Loki came with us and felt the need to separate them because that’s what she does.  Unless she was the one chasing Hoagie around the house.  For a dog who will, while walking, bark at strangers and strange dogs from behind the safety of the walkee’s legs, Hoagie has no fear of bigger dogs whom he assumes will be his friend.

Hoagie came to stay with us several times after that, both with and without our parents.  We were handy to the airport and he could be dropped off for babysitting.  By this time that meant all of them sleeping with Laurel, as, as soon as he was no longer confined to my room for the night Ichabod decided that the only place to sleep was wherever Loki was sleeping.   I missed him, but felt like I had to let him be himself, especially when the alternative was him crying and scratching the carpet until I let him out.[4]  I also suspect it led to more restful sleep for me.

I would often walk Loki down at a lovely place called Two-Moon Park.  It was several acres in size and packed with trees, streams, trails and a great big river.  The best thing in the world for Loki was rolling in a snow bank, but second best was sliding down a bank into a river or diving into the water after branches at least the length of her body and thick enough to really hurt when she’d whack me in the shins while spinning around in ecstatic circles after having found the perfect one.  There would, of course, be periods of intense mourning when the water was too fast or I threw too hard and the branch followed the rushing water out of sight, but fortunately there was an abundance of large driftwood branches to wield against my shins, as well as the occasional dead fish to roll in if my back was turned. 

The first time we took Hoagie to the park, we stopped at the shallowest point of the river, where Loki always had to get her first drink.  Hoagie hesitated, unsure of whether this new and unfamiliar medium was something he wanted to enter.  He was on a leash and wearing a harness, so I knew I could get him out easily.  This allowed me to do what everyone has fantasized about doing to their mother’s favourite child and pushed him in.  He’s never looked back and even today, will simply find a likely spot and launch himself.

Whether alone, or with Hoagie, whether in a spot where I could stop and throw sticks, or just suddenly and randomly deciding to slide down the side of the bank, because she’d dried out, Loki would take any opportunity to immerse herself in the river.  But, dog memories being what they are, neither dog ever made the connection between the fun in the river and being tethered in the backyard when we got home and tormented with soap and water.

One day, Laurel accepted a job in Washington State.  As I was still working several jobs and had no better teaching prospects than the part-time History lecturing I was doing at Montana State University, which I thoroughly enjoyed, but which didn’t lead to any of those lovely things like job security or health insurance, I decided to come with her in search of better opportunity.  No plan survives first contact with the enemy.

Due to the way things worked out, Laurel was leaving two weeks before I would come out to join her – the job started before we could close on a house – and our never-to-be-thanked-enough parents had come up to help us pack and load everything into a storage unit to wait until we could load up again and go join her. Mom and Dad were staying in a motel and Hoagie was staying with us. 

Mom likes to buy her favourite child toys at garage sales and on this occasion he had some old kid’s toy that was basically a round, stuffed-animal type head that hung from a string.  When it was bounced on the string, it would play Frère Jacques.  He did a lot of running around with the string in his mouth, head bouncing along, song playing merrily.

              The last night we were there, Laurel and I were in the bathroom brushing our teeth and Loki came in with the toy in her mouth, dropped it in the toilet and left.   Apparently, what with all the stress of moving, the earworm was just too much.

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[1] That have been perfectly fine but don’t really seem to jive with all the schooling and student loans.  I can only assume I am an underachiever who believes she is actually trying to be an achiever.  End of rant.

[2] Small boy dog, ankle-deep snow, middle of the night, there are more fun things

[3] This is not an entirely selfish sentiment.  Mom had been walking a lot before the surgery and had a more rapid recovery than almost anyone from this painful surgery.

[4] I tried everything. Toys, treats, the squirt bottle.  He doesn’t like being squirted, but will only stop while being sprayed.  This meant that in the end Laurel would have a wet cat crawling in bed with her.  And, I suspect this early conditioning has something to do with the fact that even today he will demand that I come outside and rub his stomach while he rolls on soaking wet grass.  I don’t know whether this Adlerian, Pavlovian, Freudian or just obnoxious.