A Dog’s Life in Fair Weather or Foul

We have house guests, Muff and Don Brandt, Patsy’s daughter and her husband from Escanaba, Mich. This is a town that sits beside Green Bay, on the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. It is not a warm place to live. When they left, there was four feet of snow on the ground. That’s not in a drift. The drifts are 16 feet. That’s flat on the ground. It’s a beautiful place in high summer, with the lake shimmering in front of the Brandts’ house and the sail boats winging by like snow geese.

In the winter, it’s like living in a Frostee Freeze, and winter lasts through Easter. The Easter Bunny almost always has to hide his eggs in the snow in Escanaba. You may believe he hops down that bunny trail at a good clip to keep his seat from freezing.

Muffy used to have a black Labrador named Gunilla Hugman who loved the snow and the cold. In the early spring when the ice began to break up on Green Bay, Gunilla would go down to the edge of the lake and hop on an ice floe passing by. She sailed along, head back, sniffing the exhilarating tingle of the air, eyes closed in rapture as her Cleopatra barge floated gently along.

Neighbors would often call Muff and tell her Gunilla had gone to sea again and Muff would get the car out and go down and call her in. She didn’t really need to but it made the neighbors feel better. When Gunilla realized she was getting a little too far from home, she simply jumped off the ice floe and paddled ashore. She was a dog who was perfectly adjusted to her home climate and knew how to enjoy it. Besides, she had a nice snug layer of fat under that thick black fur. She was the perfect sno boater.

During last week’s calendar weather, Muff and Don have walked around with the same ecstatic look Gunilla wore. Of course, Patsy and I have not told them that that was record-breaking weather. Knowing they’re going back to almost three more months of snow makes it all the more precious.

Even in Escanaba, Don walks several miles a day. Don’t ask me how. The residents dig pathways along the sidewalks and mush on through.

When they come to California, he likes to walk down a pretty street near us, which is two miles down and two miles back, making a good walk if you travel at as brisk a clip as he does. Peaches does not. She does not walk at all. She likes to nap on satin and lace pillows and, occasionally, she runs outside and barks authoritatively. Patsy says she is clearing out the tigers and, actually, there haven’t been any tigers on our hill since we moved in. I rather think she is barking at the coyotes who troop through the hills like Robin Hood and his Merry Men gone wrong. They are clamorous, arrogant and dangerous to dogs of Peaches’ size and to cats. That’s why the yard is fenced.

I tell you this so you know that Peaches is not a muscular dog. She never did a day’s work in her life unless you count running in circles and smiling.

Don decided to take her on his four-mile walk yesterday. She has done this before with him on other visits, though her interest seems to flag toward the end of the week. So would yours if your legs were 10 inches from shoulder to toe.

When they came home, Peaches emptied her water bowl and I asked Don how it went. “She started out almost running but she began to slow up about halfway. Finally, she just sat down on the sidewalk and refused to move. I let her catch her breath and we discussed it. She could sit there by herself while I went on, and face alone whatever came along, including the mastiff who was coming up briskly on the far turn.”

She sighed and pushed herself up and they took off again, finishing their walk.

I asked Don what he would have done if Peaches had refused to move. “I don’t know,” he said, “but I thought about that.”

Don and Peaches just took off for another walk. I have some errands to run, but I’m going another way so I won’t have to pass them. I have a feeling I might see Don and Peaches sitting on the sidewalk. Beneath that feathery fluff beats a determined heart and I wouldn’t want to embarrass either one of them.