The Lost Dog

Dateline: Great Smokey Mt. National Park, Cosby Campground, Spring, 2009

Max knew he was beginning to miss Izzy when he started taking an interest, a personal interest, in the other campers… especially the women. Maybe he was a teeny bit lonely. But instead of expressing it by going up and talking to them, he made up stories about them—who they were, and what they were doing.

That evening, a car stopped to admire the trailer. There was a woman on the passenger side talking to Max, a man driving on the far side, and three children. The woman asked questions about the trailer, and said they were staying in the vintage Airstream, from the 1960s, down the drive. She was surprisingly talkative, in a car filled with people--probably hungry for supper.

Late that next afternoon, when Max returned from a hike, he was waved down by the campground host.

“Good, I wanted you to stop. You know those people up in the Airstream? Their dog ran away! They don’t even know about it yet. I was up there this afternoon, and I noticed the window was pushed out, and the blinds all messed up, and the dog was outside. When I came up, it ran away, up into the woods.”

“Oh, no,” Max sympathized,” that poor dog. I’ll keep my eye out for it.”

“Maybe a bear came along… and that’s why it broke out of the trailer. It seemed terrified.”

“Well, if you see it, and need someone to help catch it, let me know.”

It wasn’t long before the Airstream people came along, and within a few minutes, Max heard them calling for their dog. The children fanned out, and pretty soon Max heard anxious calls from all over the campground. Most of the family headed up one of the trails, calling, and soon their voices faded into the evening whispers of the forest.

Up to this point, Max had been too exhausted from his hike to help. He was lying in his bunk, recuperating, and thinking about what the poor dog would do, alone in the woods. Feeling somewhat refreshed, he got a beer and his chair, and sat by the side of the road, where he had a good view of a blooming dogwood. Shortly, a slim woman in her 40’s came down the campground loop, calling once or twice. She stopped when she saw Max.

Max said: “I heard about your dog. I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

She explained how he was a two-year old collie, rescued from a shelter, and very afraid of people. She said if Max saw the dog, it would just run from him.

“It’s a very silly dog—it hasn’t a clue—no sense,” she said. She explained how it was especially afraid of men. When they first had the dog, her husband had to lie down on the floor, and give it treats, to gradually socialize it.

“The kids are going to be traumatized. This is the second dog we’ve lost this year.”

They continued talking, Max sitting with his beer, she standing 8’ away in the road. Max couldn’t offer her a chair, because he had only one, and was afraid to offer her a drink, as inappropriate to the situation, and he knew that would just send her on her way. So they continued to chat. Her husband was just retired from the Navy, and they had sold their house, and were just living in the trailer. He was waiting to hear about a job in Ithaca, but it was very long in coming through.

Max commented: “Well, that sounds OK—it gives you the perfect excuse to travel around and enjoy the spring weather.”

“You’re right, but we’d feel a lot more secure it we had a job to come back to.”

The woman was slim and petite, in black quick-dry pants, and a tie-died t-shirt.  Standing in front of Max, she did a kind of slow-motion dance, hugging her shoulders. Then she’d raise her hands over her head, and clasp the back of her head, leaning back a little. This pulled up her undersized t-shirt, revealing a very ample section of tanned skin around her navel. Then she’d put a hand on her hip. She had a cute, up-turned nose and long black hair, tied up in a bun.

She asked Max if he was “batching it,” and what he was doing with the kayak. Max explained that he had been in the Everglades, but that it was too hot and buggy.

“But it’s perfect, here in the Smokies.”

She said Max should read “Travels with Charlie,” by Steinbeck, about a man traveling around with his pet poodle.

Soon she said goodbye, and headed back the way she had come, giving a call for the dog with a lovely soprano note, and disappeared around the bend.

Max went into the trailer and lay down on the bunk, with the lights off, and listened to music. Dusk was deepening. From his spot on the bunk, Max could see out three windows at the treetops—the deep blue of the evening sky, luminous, silhouetting a lacework of spring foliage, gradually deepening. Max thought about the woman who had been surprisingly appealing, and made up a story to explain this apparition.

Early in their conversation, she had mentioned the need to cook dinner for four hungry people, yet she had lingered. Both times she had been surprisingly chatty, even inappropriately so, considering the family that was waiting while she talked. Max wondered if she was a younger woman, perhaps childless herself, who had married an older man with a family. Perhaps she wasn’t 100% into this family thing, looking for some diversion. Perhaps… no… yes… maybe… she was on the prowl.

Deep in every male’s reptilian brainstem, there’s a circuit waiting to be activated, waiting for its day. The circuit that says “here comes the cheating female on the prowl, your big chance—Quick, inflate that big red throat pouch, and sing your song.”

Max was surprised that part of his brain still worked. But there is was, speaking perfectly clearly, not missing a line. Not that he was going to do anything about it. That circuit in his brain was like the emergency exit on the plane, or the oxygen mask. Waiting there for years, until the moment needed. But like those devices, you finger the placard for a moment, give it a cursory glance, then turn back to the Sky Mall magazine.

Max lay on the bunk, watching the sky, and conversing with the reptile inside, till night fell. By this time, he had recovered sufficiently to go for a walk, looking for the dog. He’d been thinking what kind of strategy to employ, and about the poor dog. Would it come back on its own? Unlikely, unless it had some experience with the woods. Max imagined it hunkered down in some underbrush, completely lost, exhausted, quivering with fear, perhaps with several coyotes closing in for the kill.

Max headed up the slope in the dark, through the empty At the parts of the campground that were closed. At the edge, he found a gravel road leading up hill—the Snake Den Trail.

Hearing a rustling in the undergrowth, Max shined his light—he figured if he held it close to his own eyes, he’d see a good reflection from a dog’s eyes. There was nothing there—perhaps just a branch falling from a tree. So Max continued to walk in the dark, repeating a scan with the light every few minutes.

The moon was a thin crescent, descending towards a lingering reddish glow in the west. Even its dark backside was easily visible. The air was balmy warm, with a light breeze, and stars speckled through the budding foliage. The trees were just starting to leaf out, so Max could see the big dipper high overhead, dripping out its last drop towards the north star.

Not too far away, a barred owl suddenly pierced the nigh with a long, high hoot, descending at the end to a distinctive rolled “R.” Max gave his own imitation, but he couldn’t call anywhere near as high as this particular owl. It didn’t seem to respond, but soon another owl joined the first in a brief duet. Max slowly strolled up the dark road, feeling the forest enfold him, listing for any sounds that might give away the dog. But all he heard was the wind in trees, the rustle of earthworms among the dead leaves, the occasional squeak of two branches rubbing on one another.

Ahead the blackness of the forest opened up, where faint streaks of moonlight fell diagonally across a semi-clearing. Max turned on his light to reveal a cemetery containing only six graves—"Elizabeth Robinson and …" he couldn’t make out the other name. Born before the Civil War, surviving into the early 1900s, ages 51 and 67. Now the warm wind was blowing more strongly, and the branches were swaying, winking the stars off an on. Max sat on his haunches for a while in the quiet cemetery, one hand resting on the mossy ground, lumpy but soft. Somewhere out there was a terrified dog.

Max arose and shuffled slowly back down the gravel road, trusting his feet to find a way in the darkness. High in the treetops, three lighting bugs cruised about, giving their single pulse, repeated every few seconds. Sometimes, when they pulsed behind a tree trunk, Max could see the canopy around them shine with their light, every so faintly. The temperature was perfect, and the mosquitoes were yet to emerge. It was one of those evenings when your skin seems to disappear, and you merge with the larger, pulsing being of the forest, reaching up for another year.

The next morning, Max spoke with the husband of the Airstream trailer. The dog, it turns out, had returned on its own about 11:00 pm, whimpering at the door. He said it must have wanted very much to be part of their family, and maybe was hungry, too. Before dark, they had gone out along a number of the trails, laying down their scent, giving it a way to follow them back. Apparently it had worked.

Max noticed the husband was middle-aged, in possession of all his black hair, handsome and charming. So much for the reptilian theory about the wandering wife. So much for the reptilian nooks is his brain—they could snooze in the ooze for another decade.

In Cosby Campground

Cosby is isn’t your average campground in a national park. There are only a few sites suitable for RVs, and the RV crowd has passed it by for the more spacious Cade’s Cove. A number of the campers over the weekend were obviously local people—with pickups, amply tattooed, and tents.

One family near Max had at least 3 children, and between the children and the father, they made as much noise as a schoolyard. Flashlights were playing in the trees, and a big campfire burning. Howls of sibling controversy periodically erupted, alternated with the squeals of some younger child throwing a tantrum over Kool-aid not provided fast enough. Most amazing was the father with a booming voice: “Come here, NOW!” or “Do you want a whipping?” The entire campground was kept abreast for most of the evening of every little domestic squabble.

The day Max had arrived, after driving for more than a day from Florida, he was exhausted. He’d gotten up before dawn, it was hot, and all he could do all day was lie in the trailer and listen to music. Evidently, the local couple in the next campsite felt the same way. They had a big fire going at mid day, but all they did the entire day was sit around the campfire, or lie inside the tent with the door open. At one point, Max noticed the strong smell of marijuana wafting up to the trailer, as they sat behind the tent, passing a joint back and forth.

One of the trails came out right at Max’s campsite, and people had to go out of their way to walk around his trailer. About suppertime, the family with the classic Airstream returned from a hike. The woman saw Max sitting outside in his chair, and quipped: “Aha! The snack shop at the end of the trail! What’s for supper?” Max laughed, but still wrapped in the lazy afternoon mood, couldn’t think of a smart reply.

Unlike Zion, not many people went out for a morning or evening stroll around the campground loop, but a few did. First of all, the little pairs of matching doggies in t-shirts hadn’t come to Cosby. One man did stroll by with two large matching dogs of unknown breed—one black and one white. He had a white mane and a white goatee—Colonel Saunders’s style, with a light blue shirt and bright red suspenders, to loft his pants over a portly belly. Later, another man in sporting garb came by with a beagle on a leash. OK, that one was medium-sized—but so far no little doggies. Next, a very elderly couple with crisp white hair and freshly pressed shorts came doddering by—Max wondered if they were in a tent. There was one pop-up camper at the handicapped site—maybe that was theirs.

Now, on a Tuesday, the campground was nearly deserted. All the hillbilly families with the screaming kids had vacated. The retired teacher was reading in her camper chair—a torrid, rip-off-her-bodice romance? Another retired couple was sitting beside their tent reading. Here in Cosby, there were no generators recharging the batteries of hulking RVs, getting ready for another evening of sitcom reruns on the satellite channel. Just people passing the time, pursuing their interests, in the quiet afternoon, close to nature.

This was the last place you’d expect to find a body. The best Max could do was come up with a graveyard—three of them. Yes, lots of bodies nearby, just a few feet down, but tucked in nice and proper, with no loose ends dangling. No unanswered questions—except—what had it been like to live here in the Smokies? Was life hard? Did they take the time to smell the flowers, in the spring?

On his first day in Cosby, Max had been exhausted. On his second and third, he went on long hikes. But on the fourth day, Max took time to really relax. He listened to Music, and did a little writing. He strolled around the campsite, and down by the brook. He finally tidied up the trailer and swept it out.

He kept wondering if he should be doing something, but those thoughts didn’t last for long. He was gradually floating down towards that baseline of existence, where you really relax, when you can hear the hum of your cells, idling and rebuilding themselves.

It’s that state that gradually creeps over you like a warm blanket, the kind of contentment you can’t give a name to. It’s the state when you don’t do the dishes, and it’s not procrastination. It’s when you idly watch a small olive bird rustle among the leaves outside the trailer, and wonder what’s on it’s mind. It’s when you notice the upright parallel tree trunks, reaching for the light, interwoven with the horizontal branches of dogwoods, voluptuous with flowers.

An overbird shouts “teacher Teacher TEACHER” low down in the woods, invisible as always, while a cuckoo clucks far away in a treetop. But mostly the birds are silent, their last day off before a busy breeding season, turning inward, like the campers… on vacation. Its so quiet, you can almost hear your own pulse. A day when the clouds don’t know which way to go.