“Karen! Grab a tree. Dolly’s coming.” Goodnaturedly she grabbed hold of a convenient trunk with one hand and braced herself by the cane in her other hand. We waited for the hellion to streak by. I swear I could feel the vibrations set up by her thudding paws.

“Do you carry a cell phone or something?” I asked her. She would not be able to escape if she were threatened. Being alone in the woods can be risky. There are plenty of nutcases in our fair city, and the Flat Rock area is very accessible to the downtown area. Fitchburg is home to many of the disenfranchised. Like I told Peter, just because someone’s a whack job doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.

“Oh, no,” she said, “I have a gun. I know how to use it.”

“Well, that’ll do the trick.” I might have blinked.

“Karen’s a master marksman,” Wendy told me. “She has awards.”

“Yeah, I have a license to carry,” Karen said. “You don’t have to worry about me.

“I was up here alone one day with Lulu and this guy came by and kicked her for no reason. She rolled down the hill and I couldn’t go down and get her.

“It was awful. I could hear her crying and she couldn’t get up the hill. It took her about 45 minutes before she made it. I carried her to the car. We went right to the vets. I had to call Chuck.

“That was really bad.” Karen shook her head.

“Call your dog!” we heard an imperious voice demand from further down the path.

“Oh, shit. DOLLY! DOLLY!” I took off at a run. “Dolly, come on. Don’t be a pill.”

Dolly and a large pale dog were barking and exchanging spit. I grabbed her by the collar and yanked her up and off her feet, away from the other dog.

“There are too many dogs up here,” the woman with the pale dog said to her friend who was similarly accompanied by her own large dog. “Let’s go. This used to be a nice place to go.”

She walked off in a huff.

I looked at Wendy. She knows all. “Huh?”

 “Oh, don’t worry about her. She just can’t control her dog,” Wendy reassured me.

 “E-what?” Leo Rousseau, a film maker in Gardner joked. It seems people are much more aware of ecology than they were in the late 1960’s when Earth Day got its name.

Rousseau was in Los Angeles working as an educational film maker on hot new topics like composting and organic gardening. Los Angeles was the last stop for a earth awareness march down the California coast. Participants held meetings in towns they passed through, hoping to spread the word on how the world’s systems interact. As Rousseau puts it, “basically, ecology.”

Although the end of the march was publicized, fewer people attended the meeting held in Los Angeles than in any of the smaller cities and towns along the route. However, the meeting had repercussions that still ring today. 

Realizing the earth did not have a birthday, the marchers and organizers designated April 22 as its birthday, now known as Earth Day. 

From this small beginning of what Rousseau referred to as farmers and hippies, environmental awareness has entered the mainstream. Venerable institutions like the Grange, founded in the mid 1800s, are now involved in Earth Day events.

But a friend emailed this to me and I found it pretty cute. What European Dogs Do

Enjoy.

The path around the reservoir is mostly flat with good footing. Walkers and runners enter through a service road the water department maintains. A berm separates the water from the road for the first several hundred yards. It’s lined with aged pine trees that look like they were planted when the pond was dammed. There are only a few holes denoting fallen trees. 

A few paths lead to the water. These are favored spots for the dogs who run down to drink or swim on hot days. Unfortunately, since it is so near the parking area, it’s also a magnet for the offenders leaving poopy diapers. 

After passing the beach on the right hand side, the chicken wire fence on the other side of the road disappears. More than one unwary dog has gotten caught behind this fence while in pursuit of small game. They always figure out a way around the blockade and come back no worse for the wear. An old civil defense structure with a horn lurks behind a chain link fence a little further on. Dogs have been known to run around this enclosure and roll in nasty things behind it. Not Doll though. 

The reservoir is long and narrow, no longer used as a water supply. The north side is short, basically an earthen dam. A brick pump house sits in the water about 20 feet from shore. During the warm summer ropes hang from the opening, placed there by illicit swimmers. Henry lurks, waiting to catch the scofflaws. 

The dam is a canine hot spot. Swimmers rush to the water, antsy individuals race up and down the hill on the back side. Here the grass grows high, reaching over a foot tall; some dogs graze their way through in the never-ending search for the roughage not found in the obscenely expensive food we all buy. 

The most magical dog spot appears where the maintained roadway turns into a footpath, entering the woods up a slight incline. Dogs go nuts just before making the right turn. They run in circles, they run back and forth, leap around like psycho-dogs and generally let their hair down. 

“Look at Dolly!” “Star!” “Watch out Lulu!”

Lulu, Karen’s dog, is frequently knocked over by the larger dogs. She is small and round, yet fierce. Fortunately she rolls well. “Good thing Lulu’s not a pit bull,” Peter said one day as she fended Dolly off with a determined grrr.

Karen falls frequently on the walks too. She carries a cane but a misplaced foot or a good nudge from a careening dog is enough to drop her.

 Too bad the commenter missed the whole point of the story and had a misspelling to boot..

• Your pointless blog will no doubt lure other dog owners and their dogs to this once-peaceful sanctuary, making it less of a sanctuary and more of a social microcosm of society complete with people and dog heirarchies, snubs, and social pyramids – none of which we need to subject ourselves or our dogs to in the setting of nature. Go find a dog park somewhere to play in and leave those of us who want to enjoy the serenity and wholesomeness of Flat Rock with our dogs alone!

In fact, I am a true believer in live and let live. All of the social (mis?)-interaction that occurs in this fiction is a reflection of our society just as she says. But the point is – it’s ridiculous. If 5 or 6 dog walkers at a time can’t find a way to co-exist peacefully for half an hour a day on hundreds of acres of public access land there is something seriously wrong with our “society.” Yeah, it would be nice if only the people and dogs you personally liked were there at any given time, but it’s not a reality unless you purchase your own acreage and prosecute trespassers. If you can afford, go for it.

Seriously though, this story and her reaction exemplifies how people in this overcrowded world fail to acknowledge there’s room and indeed a need for many different folks. Look at what’s happening at Whalom in Lunenburg. Developers are busy squeezing condo “units” on a parcel of land across the street from Whalom Lake. The plan thus far is to build two bedroom units so families won’t move in and demand services from the town. The Whalom lake shore has been a popular “destination” for area residents since the F and L Street Railroad built the amusement park a century ago. A colony of bars sprung up and still seem popular despite the closing and demolition of the park, lending the area a Hampton Beach feeling. Families gather at the fence to fish and enjoy the lake, play car radios and generally hang out. If I have time, I’ll stop, sit in the car and eat a sandwich between jobs.

The developers want to see that end. There’s about 75 parking spaces now. Their stated desire is to have less than 20 spaces and improve the “green space.” A laudable goal – at least to service the residents of the condo “units” who, incidentally, will not own the street or the lake at least to my knowledge. Heaven forbid they will see any people “not of our class, dear” near their “units.”

The strip is not pretty, but has its charm and many use the area much to the likely chagrin of these potential condo dwellers. It’s kind of like the people who used to build a McMansion in the pastoral country side and then complain about the agricultural smells and noises. As you can imagine, my heart goes out to them. Not.

It’s my guess those families who fish will be “whistling Dixie,” there will be a rash of complaints about the bars and one more accessible waterfront will become the bailiwick of a few.

BTW the information about the Whalom development comes from my recollection of recent stories in the Fitchburg Sentinel and Enterprise. I did not fact check them. Also – condos and the way they are run are sort of scary. Remember the cult 60s TV show “The Prisoner?”

“You’d never believe,” I said to Peter and Wendy one day. They’re always good for exchanging a little dirt.

“Ken sat beside that woman who hates me at a lecture. He said he talked with her for almost an hour about what good dogs pit bulls are. For an hour,” I emphasized.

“Leave it to Ken to be nice to Crazy Lady,” Wendy groused. “It won’t do any good, she’s nuts.” 

“I’m sure it did no good. She already said Bubba was not a problem. Why doesn’t she just walk in another area? It’s not like there’s a shortage of trails. What do we use, a mile and a half out of at least twelve?” I asked.

“She loves the thrill,” Wendy claimed. “Why else would she come up here if she’s afraid of dogs? No one should come here if they are afraid. She gets off on it.” 

Peter was quiet. He kept an eye on Kody and meandered along the trail. Kody doesn’t believe in excess movement. Dolly was plowing through the woods at top speed, periodically barging in front of Star to see if he would play. Star was trying desperately to preserve his standard poodle dignity. 

We humans were all in our summer dog walking finest; sloppy tee shirts, knee length shorts and scruffy sandals. Each person had a leash wrapped around his or her neck and each dog sported just a collar. No fancy bows or outfits on this crew. 

“Well,” Peter finally said, dragging out the “l” sound. “Ken should sleep with her. That’s what she wants.” 

“Peter!” Wendy reprimanded him. 

“I think Ken’s wife might put the kibosh on that,” I said. 

“No, I bet she wouldn’t mind,” Wendy chirped. 

We considered this in silence for a few steps. None of us were in a committed relationship. None of us particularly seemed to mind our single state. 

“I gave up men,” Peter said. “I’m celibate. It’s a lot easier.” 

“Sure,” I commiserated. “Who needs men if you have a dog?” 

Wendy didn’t weigh in on that discussion. She had other things on her mind. 

“Look. Those stupid people were up here again,” she said. 

“What stupid people?” I asked. 

“Those ones who come up with their kids and go swimming. They leave poopy diapers all around,” she said. “Right where we send the dogs in swimming. It’s posted. Henry gets really mad at them when they go in the water.” 

Wendy often uses the authority of Henry to prove her points. He’s a dog-loving employee of the city water department. His business card lists him as reservoir security. 

“They are idiots,” Peter agreed. “I was really mad at that guy. I told him. They have a pit too.”

 “That doesn’t mean they are bad,” I said, ever aware of slights against pit bulls in general.

 “Oh, the dog is fine,” Peter said. “It’s him.”

1. Make sure the batteries are fully charged. Some don’t last very long, especially if it is cold.
2. Leave it on the automatic setting. If the picture requires anything but that, it is probably beyond the abilities of the $89.99 special you bought at the box store anyway.
3. Just accept that you will need to take your photos in well-lit areas. It can require thousands of dollars worth of equipment for lighting to take a good photo in less than ideal situations.
4. Download your photos to your computer frequently. Create carefully named folders for each date, topic or locale so you can find what you are looking for at a later time. The camera creates files with names like IMG102556 and IMG103554. Even if you figure out how to preview them, it can take forever to find that shot you were looking for without some clues.
5. Never ever send emails with huge picture files. You’ve received them; those emails that take 45 minutes to download on your expensive broadband and turn out to be 5 blurry photos of your aunt’s cat. Some email programs will reduce the file sizes for you.
6. Consider learning to use a photo editing program like Photoshop Elements. Graphic programs have a steep learning curve in general, but I’ve found the courses at ww.lvs.online to be helpful. They are also cheap.
7. Don’t drop the thing or let the dog get it.

“Oh, what did she have to say?” I asked. I knew Bubba counted the dog officer as one of his facebook friends. Ken liked to say he had the best-connected dog in Fitchburg.

“She got eight calls yesterday complaining about the pit bulls up here.”

 “But why? Nothing has happened.”

‘The caller told her Dolly was the problem. She also mentioned you by name.”

“Who was it? Did she say? Did she say anything about Bubba?”

Ken answered the most important query first. “The caller said Bubba was a good dog. It was just that Dolly and Anne.”

I groaned. “It must be that woman who Dolly took the glove from. She knows my name. Is that who it is?”

“She didn’t leave her name. Suzie said she left eight messages before work yesterday.” 

“It must be her. She’s whacked,” I said with all the aplomb of a frustrated social worker.

“Errr. Errr.” The dogs echoed my frustration. Of course they were just playing tug with no concern for larger social issues.

“She knows me too,” Ken said. 

“Yeah, but she said Bubba was okay,” I countered. “I’d better call Suzie today.”

 How could Suzie not be able to identify a caller? “Doesn’t the city have caller ID?” I wondered. “I would think so,” Ken said.

“As far as I’m concerned you are doing everything ight,” Suzie the dog officer told me the next day.

 “Your dog is licensed and vaccinated. You have her under control.”

 “Well, mostly,” I hedged. “She’s still learning.”

 “I might go walk somewhere else for a few days, let things calm down,” I thought out loud.

That’s a good idea, just for a few days,” Suzie said.

“Ken said you didn’t have the lady’s name. Don’t you have caller ID in the city?” I can be a little obsessive when I want.

 “She had a blocked number.”

“I think I know who it is,” I said. “That woman who works at the museum. She’s afraid of Doll. I don’t know her name though. She knows mine.”

 “Yeah, I know,” Suzie harumphed. “Try to get her license number. I’ll track her down.” Suzie instructed.

A week later Suzie showed up at Flat Rock in the animal control truck. The dogs were all happy to see her. She must give off good dog vibes.

 “She’s following me around,” Suzie said. “She called my supervisor to say I wasn’t doing my job.”

 “Is she threatening you? Are you afraid she’ll do something?”

 “Oh, no,” the five foot nothing dog officer declared. “I have police training.”

 “Her son had to take a restraining order out on her to keep her away from his kids. They won’t let her pick them at school,” Wendy told us.

 “Do we know it’s her?” I asked. The dour golem-like woman was starting to take on epic proportions.

 “I’m trying to get her license plate number,” Suzie said. “My supervisor told her unless she left her name and number we couldn’t do anything for her.”

 I marveled. When did the woman find time to make all these calls? She sounded in desperate need of a life.

 “I’ve been up here a few times. I know everyone will vouch for Dolly being a good dog,” Suzie said. “Everyone up here likes her. You don’t have to worry about anything.”

 Dolly was doing her hardest to charm. She hadn’t moved more than a few inches from Suzie’s leg since we started talking. Did she realize she was in the eye of a storm?

Dolly the pit bull knows my traits. Her morning goes something like this. We get up any time between 4:30 and 7:30. She gets breakfast and goes back to bed. So far, pretty tough. Phone rings, it’s Ken seeing if the Doll is ready to go to Flat Rock and play with Bubba. By now she is snoring again.

Here’s where the lack of organization on my part comes in. She knows it is not time to leave until I have gone out into the front entry hall at least three times: once to find my boots, another to look for keys and the third to find her leash and jacket. Any of these items may or may not actually be there.

Then she gets dressed and goes out. Usually just as far as the hall while I turn back to look for yet another misplaced item. This morning the keys are missing…

A dog of leisure

The continuing story of Dolly and Bubba – next episode March 7

“Ken,” I gasped. “He can’t swim!”

“I  know.”

We looked at each other. We looked at Peter. We looked at the dark, empty space where the black dog used to be. His face was just visible, a white blaze floating beneath the surface.

After what seemed an eternity, but in fact about the time it took us to say all this, Bubba popped his head out of the water and skedaddled to the safety of dry land.

“Oh, my,” Peter said. “That was scary.” 

“Bubba, are you alright?” I asked. Some dogs like to be addressed in complete sentences. Given Ken’s general formality, Bubba was probably used to being addressed like this.

“He’s fine, he’s fine,” Ken reassured everyone particularly himself. “Come here, Bubba.”

“Oh, here. Here’s a treat.’

“DOLLY! Don’t jump.” Quickly things were back to normal although we now had new things to talk about.

“I don’t think pit bulls can swim.” Ken said. He postulated even further. “They don’t have enough fur to hold air and help them with buoyancy.”

“They can too swim. I saw them on youtube,” I responded. “Maybe some just don’t like to.”

The next day was Dolly’s big test. I took her up to the reservoir alone when no one else would be around to distract the social animal she had become.

I casually lured her down to the beach. Once there, I took off my sandals and walked into the water to just over my ankles. As nonchalantly as possible I called Dolly.

“Dolly, come here. Good girl, come on.”

Dolly, cookie! Cookie!”

Nope, no fooling that one. It was a nice spring day to go for a wade fortunately. I wandered around about a foot from the shore, scoping out rocks, holes and yucky spots I wouldn’t want to step in. Once I figured she had forgotten I called her, I went back to dry land. 

Dolly can be a trusting soul, and she bounded over to see what I was up to now. It was safe; I was no longer in the dog devouring water.

“Dolly, come on,” I pleaded. I tried reason. “I just want to see if you can swim. You don’t have to stay in.”

My pleas fell on deaf, or just uncomprehending, ears. Never one to be thwarted, I reached down and grabbed the ingrate by the collar. 

I harangued her a little just so she’d know who’s the boss. “You’re coming with me. Like it or not. I really don’t care.”

Walking cautiously because of the small rocks underfoot, I dragged her to the waterline. The front paws went out to brace against further forward motion.

Although she’s remarkably strong pound for pound, she’s no match for me and I accomplished my mission. By the time I hauled her to knee deep water she was in over her head. Recalling my childhood swimming lessons, I put a hand under her belly and swam her around me.

I released her and she was off like a shot, running to the land like trident-bristling Poseidon himself was after her. But I was happy; she could swim enough so she wouldn’t sink like her buddy.

Little did I know the dangers we were facing weren’t coming from anything nature could throw at us.

Dog life vests are available  like the ones here. http://www.kooldawgtees.com/fido_float_extreme_dog_life_vest.html