Tag Archives: dog

Cabin Life – #41

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The nights and days are cool, the leaves are bright and the fire wood is getting stacked in the shed.  The field is turning brown, even with the fall rain, and neither of the streams are running.  It hasn’t really been that cold, but it is coming.

Ed crashed around last night, and I thought he was going to have a mouse.  He didn’t, but it wasn’t from lack of trying.  There was a mouse turd on the table though, so the mice are definitely trying to move in for the winter.  I checked the small hole in the floor where the sink drains out and the steel wool was gone.  I shoved some more in there to try and keep them out.  I don’t have anything against mice per se, but I don’t want them in my food or on my bed or on my table.  Or in my cabin, actually.

I think it’s going to be a rough winter.  Seems like it’s much colder than it was at this time last year.  I’ve got myself set up better for this winter with solar lights and radio, and the cabin is a lot cleaner than when I moved in.  There’s less furniture and more room.  The animals are happy here and so am I.

But the weather is worrying me. I cut and split wood well into October last year with nothing more than a light flannel on and no need for a jacket.  I took a ride on the four wheeler today and my hands were stiff for a while.  It’s not looking good for those of us who were hoping for a late start to winter.

Don’t get me wrong, I like winter.  I like to ski and snowshoe and enjoy the general quietness.  But an early winter means burning more wood, plowing the driveway more and spending a lot more time in long johns.  Nothing against any of those things, I just wish they would start when I want them to.  Like in December.  Oh, and the snow should be gone by the first day of spring.  That’s not too much to ask, is it?  I’m afraid this year it will be.

Cabin Life – #40

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I’m a traitor.  I went to Vermont to go hiking this week.  A friend and I hiked Elmore Mountain to an old fire tower.  The fire tower was open to the public even though it was decommissioned, which is a big change from New York.  Most of the fire towers here have had their first two flights of stairs removed, with the small, obligatory “Warning” sign attached somewhere. 

When I went over Sunday afternoon on the Port Kent ferry, the overwhelming view of both Vermont and the Adirondacks was still green.  The shoreline of Lake Champlain on both sides of the lake showed little sign of the cooling temperatures of mid-September. 

I met up with Mike in Montpelier and followed him to his house somewhere in the middle of nowhere.  It was well after dark by the time we got there.  We had a small fire and a couple of beers while Pico and Mike’s dog Sadie wrestled with each other and barked at the coyotes howling in the woods, not too far away.  We could hear cows mooing on a neighboring farm and a heavy dew started settling in while the fire died down.

When I woke up the next morning, I glanced out the window to see a gray sky and a fire red maple.  The feeling of waking up on an overcast day with a hike planned was somewhat offset by the brightness of the tree.  The window was open and the coolness made me both wide awake and reluctant to get out of bed. 

I knocked on Mike’s door to wake him up for the hike, but he and Sadie were already awake.  After a beautifully fatty breakfast with a lot of coffee, we headed north to Elmore State Park to climb the mountain.  It was a nice trail, and because it was Vermont, basically everyone else we saw had a dog, so Pico and Sadie had plenty of butts to sniff along the way.

When we were done with the hike, we headed back to Mike’s place so I could go home and he could drive down to New Hampshire for a three day hiking trip.  I got back on the ferry in Burlington, and soon realized that the boat was going backwards.  Or, more accurately, the cars were facing backward. 

As the ferry left Vermont, I watched as the lake gained in size while the buildings and boats shrank.  Camel’s Hump and Mt. Mansfield stood idly by while we went west across the lake.  I got out of the car and turned around.  Looking at the Adirondacks from the ferry with Vermont at my back, I realized that I while like the vibe of Vermont, it’s not the Adirondacks.  And I love the Adirondacks.

Cabin Life – #39

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It’s a writing in the hammock kind of day.  The sun is shining, but the pines are giving me enough shade to stay cool.  It is that particular brand of fall day when it’s a little hot in the sun and a little cool in the shade.

Herbie the Fat Cat is what’s on my mind.  The middle child of my pets, both in age and in size, Herbie is a great cat.  He doesn’t do anything and it’s wonderful.

I got Herbie almost ten years ago, mainly as a friend for Ed.  I was travelling a lot and Ed was pretty wound up back when he was around two years old.  So when my friend said she had a big lazy stray that she had taken in, I went and met Herbie.

I don’t know if it’s just me, but when I go to “meet” a potential pet, I know that I’m going to take him home.  It’s not even a question.  When I got to Lorena’s house, there were five cats.  Her mom already had a few, which is why they needed to unload Herbie.  He was lying under their dining room table and let me scoop him up.  He was (and is) grey striped on top and white underneath, almost like someone held him and dipped him a bucket of white paint.  They had had Herbie de-clawed, which is something I would never do to a cat, but I have to admit that it’s kind of nice.  I’ve never had money taken out of a security deposit because of Herbie.

The humans chatted and Herbie smelled around his new carrier, finally going in to eat the treats I had tossed in there.  When I got home with Herbie, Ed made his disapproval clear.  It took two whole days for Ed to forget that Herbie was an intruder and the two of them started tearing around the house together.  I had hoped that having a lazy tub around would calm Ed down, but it had the opposite effect.  Herbie was almost as wild as Ed.  He lost a couple of pounds in fat within six months.

The Big Guy goes by many names, most of which revolve around his weight.  He isn’t really fat, he’s big boned.  Seriously, he is.  Herbie has now mellowed out a lot and seems to be taking to middle age nicely.  He and Ed still wrestle, but the unabashed free-for-alls have dropped in number (Pico has filled that hole with all his might).  When Herbie sleeps in bed, he doesn’t lie on the pillow or move around all night like Ed.  When he jumps on the table, he doesn’t lay on my keyboard or book like Ed.  He doesn’t bark or jump on you like Pico does.  And he’s content to lie in the sun for hours on end.  He’s my fat cat, and he’s the best fat cat I’ve ever known.

Cabin Life – #38

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Pico was just digging in the ground, making a cool spot to lie down in.  After the rain we got last night, the disturbed ground had a nice, earthy smell to it.  A week ago, it would have been just dust, floating up into my face and choking me.  Now it smells good.

This is my favorite time of year.  The leaves are starting to change color and it’s not due to the drought this time.  There are bright yellows and orangeish-reds.  Most of the trees are still green but that just makes the few that are changing really stand out.  They look striking even though I have to see them through red, scratchy eyes most of the time.

The road is covered with dead leaves that blow around on the dry days.  The good news is that since there are dry days now, it also means that there must be wet days.  The rain we’ve gotten isn’t making up for the summer yet, but at least it is raining once in a while.  We needed the water, but it’s also nice to get a free car wash now and then too.

I’ve always liked fall the best, and after this ridiculously hot and dry summer, the cool nights and warm days are a huge relief.  Just cool enough for a long sleeve shirt at night.  The mosquitoes are starting to die down and there’s a noticeable difference in the amount of daylight we’re getting.  I’ve seen some geese heading south and even with no water, the few apples that made it are ripening up.  I guess that’s what I like about fall.  All of the above.

Cabin Life -#37

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I love lying in the hammock.  There’s a cold beer on the upright log next to me and Pico is lying on the other side.  Shamelessly, I use Pico as a push off to swing the hammock.  He weighs enough to absorb the push, and seems to be content with the petting.  Luckily he hasn’t attempted to join me in the hammock yet.

There are a couple of spider silks strung between two branches, and the afternoon light is glinting off of them.  When the light breeze blows, they disappear and then reappear as a shimmer in the middle of nothingness.  I can’t see where the silks tie into the leaves, but the suspended middle of the strings is visible more often than not.

Even when I’m not tired, the hammock seems to lull me into a state of pure apathy.  Especially with the heat we’ve had this summer, the feel of the breeze encompassing my whole body is very relieving.  Whatever book I’m reading inevitably ends up on the ground, and I have no qualms about spending an hour in semi-consciousness while hanging out in the hammock.  Even Pico seems to relax when he’s there, only getting up to chase a red squirrel or chipmunk up one of the pine trees.  He hasn’t gotten hit by a pinecone yet, but it’s not for a lack of trying on the squirrel’s part.

I push off of Pico again and run my hand lightly down his back as the hammock swings away.  It’s a small price to pay for having such a reliable and useful partner.  Lying in the hammock not only relaxes me, but brings back lots of memories from growing up.  My grandparents had a summer camp on the Sacandaga Reservoir, near Vandenberg’s Point.  The camp was set up on a hill, but it was just a short walk down to the beach. 

They had a flight of wooden stairs that went down from the camp through the blueberry bushes.  Halfway down the stairs, there was no railing on the right side, and that’s where the big, classic, white cotton hammock hung.  It was low enough to the ground that an adult could put their foot down and push off.  I just belly flopped onto the thing, shoved my arm through the netting and pushed off of one of the big knotty roots with my hand. 

It was one of my favorite things about spending time at camp.  The place was pretty close to home, so we would go up there a lot.  There was no hammock at home, though, and the one at camp always seemed special.  Maybe it’s because I shared it with so many of the important people in my life, but I don’t think I got lazy when I lay in that particular hammock.  I just got happy.

Ausable Marsh

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Pico and I hiked the Ausable Marsh Wildlife Management Area trail a few weeks ago.  Here’s a few shots from the marsh.  I don’t know wildflowers, so if any of you know what these are please clue the rest of us in with a comment.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lake Champlain

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Cabin Life – #36 will be out next Tuesday…

Popped up over night and disintegrated two days later.

 

Driftwood and Valcour Island

 

Great Blue Heron wading along shore

 

Hiking up the hill out back. Wasn’t that long ago…

 

Cabin Life – #31

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I was watching the sun come up over the Vermont mountains, listening to Pico splash in the lake and really appreciating the bug free morning.  The haziness of the air made for a nice sunrise, all pinks and purples.  Pico loves the water, even though I have to give him a warm-up throw or two of the ball to get him to really swim.  But once he’s in, he loves it.

Ed caught a mouse last night.  At three in the morning.  And he wouldn’t kill it.  He just walked around for half an hour with the poor thing in his mouth.  Every couple of minutes Ed would drop him just to catch him again.  He was growling at Herbie and Pico and me.  Finally I just picked Ed up and carried him outside, where he dropped the mouse and it ran off. 

I’m no fan of mice, especially in my house, but I was surprised when it ran off.  As far as I know, it’s only the second mouse Ed’s ever caught.  And he responded to my travesty of releasing his prey by knocking a glass onto the floor, shattering it.  He maintained eye contact the entire time.  Now, the next time this happens, I will be faced with the decision of letting him torment the mouse or incurring Ed’s wrath.  Well, sorry little mice, but I gotta live with that cat.

Cabin Life – #28

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I’m sure there’s been plenty of people in my life who wanted to tell me to go jump in a lake.  Well, for the last two days, I’ve had to do just that.  The temperatures have been well into the nineties, hot, hazy and humid.  It’s exactly the type of weather I left Florida to avoid.

Around ten last night, I took Pico down for a swim.  As hot as I was, I can’t imagine how hot a dog could be in weather like this.  After throwing a stick a few times, I let Pico chew on his temporary toy and just sat in the water.  The lake was calm, with no breeze to speak of.  Even though it was hazy, some stars were out and lights fromVermont were reflecting on the almost-glass surface of the lake.  The mosquitoes were bad, so I sat in water up my neck and was glad that the horseflies had at least taken the night off. 

Pico and I had chased a flock of geese off the beach a couple of weeks ago, but apparently they didn’t go far.   They swam by, twenty yards out.  There must be twenty of them, parents and little ones.  In the calm water, they looked majestic.  The slow ripples coming off their bellies and the quiet mumblings were soothing, while the reflections of silhouettes graced the water, and I thought to myself:  “I really wish those stupid geese would stop pooping on the beach.”

Cabin Life – #10

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Pico.  What a lucky mutt.  As far as anyone can tell, he is half border collie and half Australian shepherd.  Seems good to me, and he really doesn’t care what you call him.

A couple of weeks after I moved to Florida, I realized that living with my brother was the first place I had ever lived where I could have a dog.  So I went out and got a dog.  I checked the local shelters and there were no border collies, so, I went on to Petfinder.  There were border collies galore on the site.  Most people think they want a border collie until the dog starts outsmarting them and gets bored and starts destroying things. 

As I scrolled down the page looking for my new little buddy, Pico’s picture popped up.  He had a huge smile on his face and was lying contentedly on a piece of plywood.  I emailed the organization that was fostering him, and got a phone call later that day.  The woman on the phone really wanted to know about me, and she grilled me about owning a border collie.  She wanted to know about my job, my yard, my plans, if I had a girlfriend, and lots of other stuff. 

After convincing her that I knew what I was getting into, I was allowed to go see him in person.  The forty-five minute phone interview was just the first part.  My friend Brett and I drove the hour and a half to Port Orange, FL to meet the foster parents and Pico. 

He came charging out of their office on a leash that one of the women could barely hold onto.  He immediately started jumping on us and trying to chew on my shoes as we talked.  I tried to restrain him the best I could, but at about a year and a half old, he was already pretty powerful.  The women filled me in on his history:  They had taken him and two other dogs out of a shelter on the day they were due to be euthanized.  The other dogs’ names were Roscoe and Train.  Put all three names together and you get Roscoe P. Cotrain, the sheriff from The Dukes of Hazzard.  Yup, I was living in the south.

They had had Pico for a while because the people who were interested in adopting him had either been turned off by his exuberance or rejected by the organization.  I was something like the eighth or ninth person to come and see Pico.  This crazy mutt with the sob story had me from the start.  The women agreed to take him back at any point in the future, regardless of the circumstances, but I knew I was in for the long haul.

On the way back to Jacksonville, Pico started eating the seat belt in the back seat.  When we got home, him and Duff (my brother’s huge German Shepherd) took off running in our tiny yard.  Pico was explosively fast and literally had a crazy look in his eye when he was running at full bore.  You’d better watch out because when he runs like that he is not in control of his own body.  It’s hilarious and terrifying at the same time.

In addition to being really high energy, it soon became apparent that the foster moms had not taught Pico any manners, or really anything except his name.  He was not housebroken, begged for food, jumped on the furniture, and every other ridiculous behavior that you can imagine.  But, being a smart dog and completely obsessed with the treats I dispensed, he learned pretty quickly.

I also learned swiftly that Jacksonville was no place to have a dog that needed as much exercise and room to run as Pico did.  We had a few quiet city parks where I could take him off leash, and then there was the pay-to-go dog park that was nice, but I couldn’t afford it.  I took him hiking, played Frisbee and walked him regularly.  His behavior improved consistently, even with a few bad habits hanging on.

For a few years, I had tried to get my old job back up in New York, mainly because I felt bad about being so unfair to Pico.  After a few years, he was a hell of a lot better behaved, destroyed almost nothing, and was my constant companion and friend.  He deserved to run around without a leash and I became determined to provide that opportunity for him.

We had come up to New York for vacation a couple of times, and I noticed that he seemed to be right at home in the Adirondacks.  In Jacksonville, he ran all over the place, on and off trail.  In New York, he rarely ventured from the trail, and never took off after wildlife.  He was an Adirondack trail dog, no doubt about it.

When it finally came time to pack my stuff and head back north fromFlorida, the main criteria I used in finding an apartment was that they had lots of open country around the house.  I found a place outside Dannemora, NY that had a five acre field and no one cared where he ran or what he did.  (That place was nice and I would have stayed there, but there was a double murder in the house shortly before I moved in that the landlord didn’t tell me about and when I found out it kind of freaked me out). 

I’d like to say that I did all this for him, but maybe it’s something more.  Maybe he came into my life to get me back to the mountains.  Maybe we led each other here.  I don’t know, but I do know that we’re both happy to be having the cabin experience together.