Lost Dog, Phantom Deer, Raptors

Easter Sunday my big girl, Abbe, went lost.

My cousin has several acres on the far west side of Elwood, wooded, lots of water, and a creek out back.

Dog heaven.

Three large dogs had been going strong for over three hours. Then Abbe lie down beside my chair and went to sleep. And then she was gone.

Everyone tried to find her, walking, driving, calling, calling, calling, stopping to enquire of everyone they saw, for over two hours.

I grew tired, and frustrated, and went home, just to be doing something. Of course, when I got home there was nothing to do, so I quickly and quietly went crazy. My worry wasn't my loss: I had the rest of my life for that. It was that whoever took her in would find her much too large for a housedog, and put her on a chain or in a cage.

About an hour after I got home, my sister phoned and said Abbe had just come up the drive, and was trying to get in the cars, find someone to take her home.

Where she is, now.

The road from Pearson's Mill runs north from lakeside, up a long hill and levels out to the SRA sign. I like to walk it because it's wide, paved, and there is much of interest for my dogs on both sides. Plus there aren't many hills in north central Indiana: the Wisconsian glacial epoch of

10-12 thousand years ago levelled our part of the state.

As the hill crests, the woods gives way to an 80-acre field to the west. Today, as I passed the treeline, I looked west and thought, "There's deer back there". My second thought was I hadn't seen any deer in that field in over a year, and why should there be any now?

I am a lout. In touch with nothing: nothing spiritual, no sentiment, no emotions, and certainly not any -sides, feminine, gay, artistic.

Okay, I'm aware that everyone has a full set of X (Female) chromosomes: women have two.

Men, instead, have a set of Y's. Difference: that X-leg we're missing contains expressions for sanity, common sense, sound judgement, and nurturing instincts, plus a few others.

Instead, we have a penis.

So I have no explanation for what happened next. As I looked at some sparse cover in the same corner, a quarter-mile away, I saw movement, then more, then four deer broke, ran north a couple hundred yards along a fenceline, and turned west into cover.

The dogs were in a ditch, drinking fetid water, or I'd be hosing beanfield mud off them well into the night.

I saw a red tail soaring high on those warm breezes Saturday, hundreds of feet, higher than I've seen one. Not falcon heights, by any means. Those fabulous feathered missiles will "wait on" at what can only be termed altitudes, 2000 feet, and more, then power into the stoop (dive), reaching speeds estimated from 180 to 220 mph. And hit the target with razor-edge accuracy, striking a lethal blow without harming themselves.

Okay, It's impossible. Both prey and raptor are vaporized from the impact at speeds that will fly any aircraft.

Except not.

And anyone who says falcons do this "by instinct", I will personally come to your house and smack you.

Miles of Bad Road.

The longest walks of my life were separated by over 20 years - a lot then, not much now.

18 and in the farthest north of Newfoundland, perched on a 600 m.y.o. mountain, peering across the North Atlantic with radar eyes, we identified and tracked aircraft coming over the pole and into Can-Am airspace.

At the bottom of our "hill" - not a lot of mountain left after 600 million years - sits St. Anthony, at coast side. The salient quality of the town was a hospital, which meant nurses, which, in 1966, meant young women.

Our site was about 3 1/2 miles up the hill, twisting, turning, climbing, falling, a landscape tortured by powerful erosive forces. We had a couple school buses ran up and down the hill periodically, to haul us, and the dear ladies.

One stormy, besotted night, I took the bus down to spend time with a nurse who was on call. Somehow, I missed the last bus back up. As I had duty that morning, I elected to walk up.

In the interim, the storm had turned into a fully-armed Nor'easter, and the hill was closed. Which happened one other time in my year there. When the winds pegged a 120-knot gauge for hours.

It was beyond brutal. My clothing was adequate, but hardly techno: the gear probably added over 30 pounds to my mass.

The wind was so intense, as I would finally get to the top of one of those many rises, sometimes crawling, as I stood, the wind often knocked me off my feet and I would slide back down the hill I had just struggled up. This went on for hours. When I got to the site, there was an old guardshack about 30 yards from the barracks door. I had to stop inside and sit on the floor, gather myself for that last 100 feet.

I was out of high school ten years before it occurred I needed more education unless I wanted to work for a living. Upon graduation, in the spring of 1980, a friend and I hitch-hiked east to see some friends. His visit went much better than mine. I can be a load, and was.

We were moved back off the road by Officer Friendly of the PSHP at Lancaster. At the onramp, we were picked up by a guy owned a couple record stores in Harrisburg. In the van, he had these three giant pickle jars full of caps. All colors. Like a jellybean guessing contest at a church bazaar, only pharmaceutical wonders.

He never offered to share, which was good. Because he fired a Jamaican fatty, and, after two turns, I was gone. I came too in Harrisburg, and remember two things only. One, Jim Salas immortalized and enshrined himself by terming people who live in row houses "row lifes".

The other: somehow, we agreed it would be a good idea to walk across the I-81 bridge at Harrisburg.

Your map will tell you it is only about a mile.

No way.

The bridge is over 100 feet high. There are 4 lanes of high-speed traffic, including trucks, with all that turbulence. The "guard" rail is for vehicles, the top below your waist.

If you have a sidewalk out front, it's probably 4 feet wide. The sidewalk on the northbound I-81 bridge over the Susquehanna is 30", maybe 36. It is narrowed repeatedly by infrastructure, and the only way past is to turn sideways and inch along.

Which walk was worse? The Newfoundland hillclimb presented much more opportunity for death or serious injury.

But I would do it again before I would cross that bridge.

My horse kicked the shit out of a pig this morning.

A stray found his way into the pasture, and Mister Buckles overcame his flight instinct at something he had never seen before and protected the others.

Of course I feel bad for the pig. He obviously wasn't afraid of the horses, or he wouldn't have gone through the fence.

But I have to be proud of Mister Buckles.

Driving a country road today, came on a mini-drama. Into view was a redtail flying low away from the road. On the road were two turkey vultures. One was standing over a roadkill raccoon, the other watching the redtail fly away. As we passed between them they rose, then settled back to their respective stations.

Always thought vultures were voracious, first-come, first served. (Queue theory, like at Wendy's: no one gets ahead by jumping lines.)

But the one watched while the other dined first.

Pity those who know everything.