The Nose Knows

The nose knows, I remind myself as I watch the little dachshund race out the back door and head straight to the dilapidated old doggie door that leads into the garage. He is convinced that something - cat, possom, raccoon or rat - is in the garage and I know better than to doubt him. Flashlight in hand and garden rake in the other, I follow him, opening the garage doors slowly and carefully so as not to disturb whatever trespassing little creature has taken refuge inside. Better in the garage than under the house tearing up the ductwork, I tell myself. It's little enough shelter from this cold and cruel weather and I'm not necessarily interested in evicting whatever it is.

Tail wagging anxiously and whining softly, the little dachshund goes exploring. He crawls under the boxes of debris, winds his way around and past the stacks of trash, investigates each nook and cranny and eventually manages to climb up a discarded old rug to where he can reach the built in shelves and check all the hidden places. Something out of sight rustles and he freezes, staring intently at a cardboard box sitting high on a pile of filthy old blankets and moth eaten towels. I bravely shine the light directly on it but see nothing and when the rustling stops, I reach out with the rake handle and cautiously lift the lid of the box, expecting I don't know what, something otherworldy to come flying at me or perhaps a pair of luminous eyes peering back at me. But there's nothing, just an old carboard box with a ragged blanket inside, the remains of a bed I had made for a mama cat and her kittens a couple of years before. I swear the little dachshund looks disappointed. He reluctantly climbs down and once back on solid ground, returns to making his way under, over and around every obstacle. After several minutes, he seems to lose interest and I wonder if something has slipped away. It doesn't take much to persuade him to give up the pursuit and coax him back into the house.

This little drama plays out several times a day for several more days but after a week or so, whatever had taken up residence moves on. The little dachshund senses it and one day just abandons the garage without so much as a backward glance, proving once again that the nose always knows and that more often than we'd like to think, things work themselves out with no help or interference from the rest of us. You just have to learn to get out of your own way.

Snuggles

After two days of gray skies, cold temperatures and relentless rain, I'm feeling put upon and anti-social. I bundle up in my longjohns and crawl beneath the comforter with the animals, wondering if I can sleep until spring. I despise this raw weather and monotone sky with a passion. Everything feels pale and neutered and lifeless. My friend, Michael, leaves for Los Angeles in two days and I find myself half hoping his plane crashes over the Great Lakes. I take it back immediately when I remember I would then inherit his four unhousebroken, overfed and hopelessly spoiled dogs. Time to get a grip, I tell myself, it's just miserable weather and it won't last - 60 degrees and sun is forecast for the end of the week - maybe, I muse, I can at least sleep til then.

It is not to be.

Twice in the same day, the little dachshund finds a vulnerability in the lattice work and wanders off under the house and all the way to the street. The first time, I catch up with him in the next yard - cold, wet and muddy all the way to his ears - but loving every minute of this new found freedom. The second time, I discover him trotting across the street through every puddle he can find, hot on the trail on one of the neighborhood cats. By the time I corner him and scoop him up, we are both dirty and dripping and half frozen. Before I shed my wet clothes and toss him in the kitchen sink for a warm bath, I make the rounds of the back yard and finally locate a suspicious space in the latticework, just wide and long enough to accommodate a determined little dog. The next time I let him out, he heads straight for it and finding it blocked, gives me a resentful look.

“Into each life a little rain must fall,” I tell him righteously, “Now get your butt back into this house or it's back to the sink.”

I can tell he doesn't much like it - to make his point, he takes his time wading through the wet leaves and underbrush before coming inside - I towel him off and give him a biscuit and he makes his way into the sun room and curls up on the love seat with the tiny one. We call it a draw and it gives me time to take a hot shower and slip into a fresh set of thermals. Later, he will snuggle up under the comforter with me, press his small body against mine, on his side with his head on my shoulder, and sleep. It makes me feel that despite the miserable weather and the cold, all is right with the world.

The Flag Man

The intersection by the post office and the Circle K is a busy one. There's a clear “No Left Turn” sign at the exit of the post office lot but no one pays much mind to it and the traffic lights, as best I can tell, are there for decoration. It's kind of a risky place to stage a one man protest, but there he was - a shoeless, chubby, middle aged man with a buzz cut, wearing ragged blue jeans and a puffy-sleeved winter coat, carrying a handmade cardboard sign proclaiming “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition”. An oversized American flag was attached to his collar and it flared like a cape every time he spun around to confront an impatient driver with a wave and a toothless grin. He was serenely unmoved by the angry horns and the shouted insults and when the police arrived, he went quietly. Two officers efficiently unattached the flag, folded it and gave it to him to hold, then handcuffed him and bundled him into a patrol car while the intersection returned to its treacherous but normal state. Just another slice of life in a world gone a little mad, I thought, but exactly what he was protesting escaped me. As best I could recall, “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition” had been a World War II song - I vaguely remembered my daddy having a version by Kay Kyser somewhere along the way - but aside from the obvious patriotic (warmongering?) theme, it's relevance to a dangerous intersection in a small southern city didn't make much sense except as mischief or possibly some mild mental illness.

I hoped the police would be kind, maybe even find him some shoes and some hot coffee. I hoped they would let him keep his flag. When the weather changed the following day to raw, cold and wet, I began hoping he wasn't homeless or one of the many veterans we've forgotten about.

I got home, slipped into a second layer of thermals and extra socks, burrowed under a blanket with the dogs and gave thanks for what I have and don't always appreciate.