Walking Choctaw by Ed Parker
The subject, and therefore the question, comes up more and more frequently of late. The subject being somewhat delicate, the question involved, I’ll skip over both. Answering that my interests are more internal and reflective than social, and then, I read a lot, listen to music, late night moody music.
I look out my window at the valley below, wondering what stories the passing cars hold. Curious, yet I prefer them there, distant and hard shelled. Peopling their speeding forms with histories and personalities, loves and fears mingled and confused, lives in transit, to work or shopping, following the call of life’s demands. Normal people doing normal things, I suppose. Things I find somewhat difficult, having this reluctance to leave the house. Not fear, not as fear is known. No fear is, not quite the word, not what holds me close to familiar things. No, it’s more; call it procrastination, of putting off for another time, a better time, one more convenient to the moment, to the mood. And then I have no answers for peoples’ questions, that particular question: “What’s wrong with you? Why don’t you get a job? Get out and meet people?”
Choctaw will have none of it, caring nothing about that. Aloof to all explanations, reasons, excuses, he dances paw to paw, rolling his head, yawning, impatient to leave, too dignified to whine, to polite to bark. He looks at the door, at me, at the door. There’s no reasoning with him, no putting him off. He wants to go.
There’s speculation that there might be some connection between the Lab and the Newfoundland breed, second cousins perhaps, distant enough for the relationship to be politely ignored. Choctaw ignores it, looking bored when the question is raised, giving just the tip of his pink tongue in a gently derisive raspberry. A look some mistake for interest. Still, the similarities are striking, the way he hold’s his head, black and jowly, an image surfeit with brown-eyed, pink tongued concern. A papered Lab, grandson of champions, or so we were told the day my daughter picked him out. I remember how she held him up by his fat round belly, frowning down, aiming him out and safely away, how his little pink tongue gave him an oddly contrite look as he peed. Truth be told, he reminded me of my grandpa, having something of Jim about him. Jim was Grandpa’s Christian name, the name he was assigned at missionary school. I suggested Choctaw, after my grandparents’ tribe, earthy people, solid and quiet, at least Grandpa was. Katie thought it over, and agreed. My wife shrugged, willing to humor me if it was alright with Katie.
Grandpa and Grandma were old when I knew them; neither had any teeth, and spoke with a loose billowy cheeked drawl, a ball of chewing gum rolling along their empty gums, tossed absently from check to check as they spoke. Neither seemed to notice it, not as much as I did, talking around and over it. Grandma, truthfully Grandma was a moody woman. A difficult, woman, subject to sudden, unpredictable changes, given to swooping down, catching you outside the root cellar door just as you thought you was home free. Light and wiry in her youth, she could jump a six foot fence standing next to it, never bending her knees, or so I was told. Truthfully it was my father who told me that, he was no fan of Grandma and known to extend a point of fact beyond reason. His credibility suffered from his effort to capture the essence of the subject, small loss in the larger sense. He thought, “Hell on wheels,” captured Grandma’s essence nicely and often said so albeit at a distance from the old darling and quietly.
Grandma had bulked up by the time I knew her, becoming a short, round woman, whose athletic ability was confined to glares that could peel paint, sulking louder than a passing twister. I swear her silences shook the house; they shook me. I remember biscuits winging by, smashing into the wall by Grandpa’s head; she still had the arm, if not the eye for it. Yesterday’s biscuits, mind you, or the day before: the Great Depression left a heavy mark on Grandma and Grandpa, nothing was wasted. Grandpa would hunch his shoulders, that little ball of pink chewing gum showing bright in his dark sagging cheeks. His sad martyr eyes having that, “what now look?” A look that personified his tribe. It was that particularly perplexed expression that made me suggest calling that sad eyed pup, Choctaw.
Choctaw’s a hundred and nine pounds, according to the vet’s scale. “Well, he’s heavy boned," I says, "has a large frame.” The vet eyed me as one would a child beater, heavy eyed, trying not to let his feelings show. “He needs exercise.” More and worse went unsaid. Anyway it got me thinking. That first walk was short, both of us puffing, looking sore footed, happy to be home. The next walk was a little longer. Now Choctaw likes to walk, both of us coming alive on our walks through Manito Park.
I feed him a half hour before we go, by then we both need to go, I, mentally, he physically. He takes affront when I put him outside now, those days when we can’t walk, when something comes up, or it’s snowing or raining. He considers it unjust, his look saying he’s a member of the pack, in good standing too, no reason to be treated like this. I can see the accusation in his eyes. The backyard holds no purpose for him; he has nothing to say there, no one to say it to. Peeing is a social thing with dogs and he longs to introduce himself every few feet, dashing from post, to tree, to bush, tugging impatiently at the leash, eager for news, having something to say. He has no pretensions, no fear. He is happy to see everyone. Well, maybe not that gang of small, long haired, yappy dogs down the street, all that nervous excitement puts him off, I think.
There are few people out, there seldom are on late afternoons, when he takes me out of the house. He looks at me strangely, and sighs when I tell him to heel, to not sniff passers by. We both know I’m being unreasonable. I might as well tell him not look at them, not to hear their voices. Of course he’s going to sniff them. Smell is a dimension to him, like up and down, near and far, tells him things I can never understand. Some times we meet nice people, others I apologize to over my shoulder, walking quickly on. Smell makes up for his attitude toward time, he has no use for time. Time is now, and he doesn’t put anything into it that’s not already there. I can’t understand smell like he does, but I am hoping someday to share his sense of time.
He was confused at first, curious, when I started taking greater responsibility for him and his impact on the lawns and sidewalks in the neighborhood. It’s embarrassing to think how long I shirked that duty. A red faced woman in a minivan set me straight on the subject one afternoon, saying: “That dog yours?” I could only look at her dumbly, Choctaw being on one the end of the leash and I on the other. What am I to say? “Well, so is that,” she says, tossing me a plastic bag. And so it was. Now Choctaw watches me, his head cocked to the side, as I clean up behind him. He seems to take great satisfaction in my work, in my carrying that warm, round plastic bag. He thinks it some bonding thing, a ritual peculiar to humans, or so I surmise from the way he carries his tail, his pleased, self-satisfied look.
A gray squirrel lives in the trees behind our house, drinking out of Choctaw’s bowl, eyeing his food. Choctaw circles nervously in front of the patio door, wanting to defend his water bowl, not wanting to go outside, hating all squirrels. Raccoons worry him, being uncertain as to their intentions. They seldom came around, acting superior when they do. He runs out onto the deck, staring down at them when they take a shortcut home through our backyard. He wrinkles his forehead and gives a quizzical little woof, as if unsure if more or less is required, opting for less. At least he did until that night when he woke me up, panting with excitement. He took me to the patio door and stood there shuffling from foot to foot, looking at me, looking outside. Outside on the patio were two big raccoons were trying to work the combination on his dog food bin. One waved a paw at me as if to say he didn’t need the porch light, thanks anyway. Hissed at me when I poked him with the mop handle, puffing up the way they do, looking like little grizzly bears in war paint. Choctaw peering around my leg, looking at those two bruisers, hesitant to go outside, concerned that I might leave him out there. Behind me, my wife laughs at both of us, at how we peer around the corner of the door to see if those two hooligans had gone, calling us cowards. She didn’t see the size of them, or hear the way that one hissed. Good sense is seldom recognized in husbands or watch dogs, our motives so often being misunderstood and maligned.
Manito is the main park on the south hill, in Spokane for that matter, though there are smaller neighborhood parks every few blocks. South Hill is an older part of town with older, well tended houses, Tudors and two story bungalows, rich houses and those of more modest means standing side by side. Sam lived just up the street until he died of cancer, a black Lab like Choctaw though they didn’t like each other: Choctaw peed in Sam’s yard, it’s a dog thing. And there’s this Golden Retriever, more red than gold, that lives on the other side of Cedar. Cedar is one of those streets that keep changing names, a common problem in Spokane. Just up the road it’s High something, further down, it’s Maple. Streets begin and end for no particular reason in Spokane, a matter of whim, apparently. Anyway that Golden Retriever has a weird sense of humor, pretends to be asleep on the porch until you’re close, then goes berserk, barking and growling, scares the hell out of Choctaw, me too. One day I poked it in the nose with the tip of my cane, not hard, just a quick bump, gave me an odd reproachful look, now he ignores me, turning his head when Choctaw and I pass by.
The South Hill is a neighborhood of tree lined streets, pine, maple, chestnut mostly. There is a pine tree in my front yard, another in the back yard, most houses seem to have one or two. The maples and chestnuts grow between the sidewalk and the street, pushing up the sidewalk in places, making you watch your step. Choctaw watches the trees looking for squirrels, pointing them out to me, expecting me to shoot them I guess. I see his shoulders tense, his ears cock up and fold forward, preparing to lunge in some forlorn hope of catching a squirrel. I tell him to heel, seeing him slump with despair, but only for a moment, being an optimist. A trait I admire in dogs and find tedious in people.
There’s Cannon Park, a grassy neighborhood park with trees and ducks and a big pond. A true benefactor to the community put a doggy poop mitt dispenser there to advertise their pooch shampoo business. One of those do it yourself affairs with a million kinds of shampoo, more or less, each with a different scent I expect. Scents less interesting to Choctaw, but more acceptable than what he would prefer to roll in, given the opportunity, interesting to Choctaw being something sufficiently dead, so very dead, as to be unidentifiable other than by DNA, or perhaps another dog. Flea shampoo would come in various essences of road kill, if dogs were given a choice. I’ve been promising the wife to take him there, the doggy shampoo place, but then, I get busy and Choctaw doesn’t press the subject. We go through Cannon Park on our way to Manito Park, sometimes circling the pond, going by the mitt dispenser twice. Choctaw doesn’t bark at the ducks, watching them out of the corner of his eyes, not wanting to frighten them into flying away, wanting me to shoot them. He’s never touched a feather in his life, but seems to in his dreams, laying on his side, paws working in his sleep. He makes the oddest sounds then, little muffled woofs, like he has a mouthful of wet duck. Sometimes it wakes him up, he looks around, sighs, his head flopping dispiritedly back to the floor.
We don’t eat meat, not red meat, Choctaw doesn’t complain, even tries to show enthusiasm for the carrots we give him, but his hearts not in it. Sometimes I catch him licking his jowls, staring off into space, looking wistful, knowing he is not thinking of carrots. He looks forward to Manito Park, sometimes when no one is around, I let him off his leash, he likes to run. A scofflaw, I know, but he seems so pleased, bouncing around, sniffing stuff, stuff in another doggy world. Still, I keep a sharp eye out for other people letting their dogs run, other scofflaws. The kind of selfish inconsiderate people I raise a righteous eyebrow to when Choctaw is on the leash.
There are not many people out in the winter, not when it’s raining or snowing. I won’t go out then either, and so Choctaw mopes, sprawling on the floor, his jowls spreading out like some basking elephant seal, eyes all droopy. Choctaw’s got too much hair to take him out when it’s wet; it takes two, three towels and ten minutes of hard rubbing before I can bring him inside. Deep down, I think he is convinced the weather is just another excuse for me to sit on my butt. He seems indifferent to the rain and sleet rattling our windows, not seeing the problem, accepting his fate like a unjustly condemned hero. He seems to know when he can win and when it is hopeless. Truth is, I like walking in the winter, when the Cannon Park pond freezes over and all the deciduous trees are covered in white and crystal. I’ve never gotten used to winter fairyland scenes where the decorating and flocking is left to nature.
I was raised behind the Redwood curtain in northern California, where a cold winter is a skim of ice and maybe a heavy frost, gone by mid morning. Here snow can lay on ground from November to April, not deep, but persistent. Ice makes walking tricky, someone told me about these crampon things you wear over your shoes. I haven’t bought them thinking my life can use a little danger.
Manito Park is always different, being a showplace place of seasons, of buds and blossoms. There is always something showing color and life in Manito Park, except in winter, then it is white and white holds every color. In winter, there is the show of snow and ice of perfect puffs of snow on bare white limbs, delicate ice crystals casting tiny rainbows, white powder clinging thick to dark green branches. The snow hides a multitude of sins in the hope spring will find them more bearable. One of the swans died a few months ago, a natural death they said in the paper, ruling out foul play, I suppose. Swans mate for life and now there is only the one. The Manito Pond is larger than the one in Cannon Park, having an island where the swans used to nest. The population of ducks ebbs and flows, geese stop by for a visit, and seagulls, but now there is only one great white swan. Two swans gliding together seems grand and majestic, one seems wrong somehow, unnatural.
We turn in at the Japanese Garden, it’s closed in the winter and Choctaw’s not allowed, no dogs, not even those with a doggy poop mitt. I snuck him in once anyway, to look at the Koi cruising languidly under the arching wooden footbridge, in the shadows. He didn’t seem impressed, getting a drink from the re-circulating stream, looking like he’d rather leave. The trees there are evergreen, spruce, juniper, and pine sloping down to the west and north toward smaller flowering trees and bushes. In the spring it’s worth sneaking your dog into see.
The loop road is closed in the winter to the drive by people and I wish it were closed all year, so does Choctaw. The loop road loops around behind the Japanese Garden, behind the Rose Garden, over the stone bridge, around and back by the Lilac Garden and under the stone bridge. People should be encouraged to get out more; you can’t see much inside a car and the air smells different outside, clean. Dogs like being outside, they like leaving notes on snow covered bark.
In the winter, once we cross the stone bridge, I let Choctaw run, whistling when he goes too far. He always comes back, checks in, takes off again. I watch for other walkers while Choctaw runs, following his nose. He’s in a different world, I know, one I can barely imagine. A doggy world filled with autobiographical statements, bold statements, intriguing hints, lingering innuendos, each having some meaning, some fascination. Something like when my wife and daughter spend a day at the mall, I imagine, seeing what’s going around. It’s the best I can do. The joys of shopping are as mysterious to me as Choctaw’s world and far less attractive. Choctaw comes to me when I grow impatient and call, only fatigue returns my wife and daughter, proudly dragging boxes and bags behind them.
I always wait until we have crossed the bridge before letting him run, at least I do now. The railing on the stone bridge, the parapet, whatever they call those things, is about two feet thick and waist high made of the same lava rock as the rest of the bridge, taller than Choctaw’s head and he is a curious fellow, always wanting to look around. It was my fault; I let him go earlier than usual, before I should have. It had been snowing and the day was gray and cold, about a foot of snow on the road, the bridge was covered in snow and ice; no one was around. It seemed like a good idea, not that I examined it too closely, Choctaw was dancing with excitement, wanting to go, though that was no excuse. He had crossed the bridge and was fast disappearing, when I called him back, being a worrier. And being in high spirits Choctaw came bounding back, looking like a teenager. About half way across the bridge he takes a leap for the bridge rail, changing his mind when he sees what is on the other side, going into a four paw skid. Every thing seemed to slow down then, like it does in movies, watching him slide on that ice covered edge. Somehow he clawed his way down from there. It was over in an instant, a long instant as instants go, feeling something like eternity. The other side was a long way down and Choctaw doesn’t bounce like he once did, when he was younger and lighter. My heart restarted as he got down from there, though it was racing by the time he reached me, by then I was breathing again. I put him back on the leash and walked him carefully over the bridge. I seem to be the only one who remembers it anymore, Choctaw doesn’t give the bridge a second thought, though he’s no longer curious about what lies on the other side.
Spring is a time of pastels, when trees bloom in off-whites, touched with soft pink and green, of milk white skies. Pastels speak of becoming, of emerging life. Today, across from Cannon Park is a tree much like a willow. Buds, round, pale pink and milky jade, hang heavy from its drooping limbs. In a day or two, a week, it will be something else, something darker, more vibrant. Life is simply a state of transitions born of some eternal something, part optimism, part defiance. Choctaw enjoys pointing these things out to me, forgiving me for being so slow to catch on. He lives without hesitation or reservation, a proponent of just now, with a few exceptions.
Spring makes Choctaw think of squirrels. Most thing do, though truthfully they seem to be everywhere, out and about, busy with their squirrel business. Business must be slow in the spring when your business is seeds and nuts. What do they eat in the spring, or the summer for that matter? And why do they blow raspberries at Choctaw? Teasing him with the intricate movements of their tail, something like a sine wave gone berserk, whipping about like a Chinese dancer’s long ribbon of silk. It must mean something, something derogatory to dogs. Perhaps, it is simply that dog tails have a lateral way of tail phrasing and squirrels whip theirs up and down, in and out. People have gone to war over less.
Walks of a late summer afternoon are grand affairs, quiet times though people are out working in their yards, children playing in the streets. Something about the softness of the air has that effect, I have no idea why. Flowers demand your attention, pale apricot roses, yellows, every shade of red. Manito Park has a formal garden, and English garden with flowers laid out just so, and a couple of cement fountains, water bowls for Choctaw when it’s hot. Being a practical dog, when it’s hot, he has been known to climb inside them and sit there in the falling spray, smiling back at the children.
Children like Choctaw, they like his big black bear face and great pink tongue. Sometimes they join him there and sit beside him in the fountain. Their parents glare at me for setting such a bad example, though it wasn’t my idea. No matter how far we walk he’s still wet when we get home.
In the autumn, afternoons take on a crispness, leaves turn to vibrant yellow, red, all the more dramatic shades of goodbye. Signs of Halloween appear, pumpkins glowing on the porches. Soon it will snow.
Call it guilt, or noblesse oblige, His motivation doesn’t matter. I am thankful that Choctaw has taken me out into the world, filling me with his joy and appreciation for all that’s there. And as our feet grow sore brings me home again having tasted with him, a sense of dignity and being. What more can any being do for another?
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