Morgan the Flying Dog

The Voice & Herald is on vacation. So this is a shabbatshalomagram message I sent out. Enjoy.

July 18, 2008

Shabbat Shalom, Haverim:

On Sunday last Penney watered the hanging geraniums we keep in flower boxes outside our bedroom and Sam’s. She filled the watering can, raised the window then the screen in Sam’s room and watered and she lowered the screen and the window. She went and re-loaded the can and came to our room where she raised the window and the screen and watered and lowered the screen and then we drove to Tanglewood (Hayden, Bach, intermission, Mozart, Schubert) where we rendezvous-ed with some friends. (I wonder if any of you were there as well? We saw some other people from Rhode Island; we always do, but I bet at least one other person on this list was there on the vast lawn or in the shed who we missed.)

We chatted, read, picnicked, looked up at the uncertain sky which serially sent forth sun, cloud, drizzle, sun, cloud, sun, drizzle, sun, and enjoyed. We drove home, stopping to eat at a pizzeria we like and arrived here at about 8:00. The odd thing is that the key didn’t open the door directly. The bolt, it turned out, had also been locked. Strange, I’m pretty sure I left the house last; I’m positive I didn’t lock the bolt. Ah, well. Morgan the Wonder Dog greeted us excitedly, complaining about the lack of fresh air, exercise, and toilet facilities, so we leashed her and took her out for a stroll around the block. There are two beagles in the neighborhood who compete for the honor of shrillest howlers as Morgan sachets past their homes. One lives to the West of the public tennis courts we walk around, the other directly opposite on the Eastern side. Sometimes their barking is in stereo. We smile condescendingly—stupid dogs, poor owners—and Morgan often turns her back to one or the other (as they are scrapping against glass windows barking and barking and barking) and squats, sticks her tail out vertically, and poops. “Take that you pesky Beagle,” she seems to be saying. We dutifully scoop and continue on.

As we returned to the house, conversation was on how one of us could have bolted the door and forgotten that he (or she—my choice) had. But as we got home I noticed that the flower basket was resting on the yew bush. It’s not supposed to be there; it’s supposed to be hanging in front of our bedroom window. I looked up and—voila! It wasn’t there. I pointed this out to Penney and realized that our across the street neighbor Rick has a key to the house and that he often turns the bolt when we’ve asked him to come in and feed the dog or whatever. “Rick must have bolted the door,” I said. “But why, she asked?” The window box has something to do with it,” I Sherlocked.

So when we got in, I called Rick. Yes he had been in the house. The dog had been out. “Huh?” I asked in my most unsherlockian tone. “Well, Andy from next door rang my bell this afternoon and he had Morgan by the collar and asked what we should do with her. I said I had the key so I’d bring her back. I did, then I checked to see that all the doors and windows were closed on the first floor; they were, so I left bolting the door behind me,” he reported.

Even though it was only 8:30 at night, the dawn was breaking. Penney went upstairs to our bedroom and invoked the deity. “The screen, it’s gone and there’s the impression of a dog in the bush below!”

It was all clear to us now. Morgan, upstairs (rummaging through the wastebasket, I’m sure—this is how she punishes us) had heard one of her (many) enemies walking in front of the house. She charged towards the window, went through the screen, knocking over the flower box in the process and either flew (in a manner of speaking) or plummeted (same result) onto the bush, apparently unscathed. At some point later one across the street neighbor collared her and the other brought her home, checked the doors and windows and left confused, wondering how she could have gotten out, bolting the door behind him.

That night, as we went to bed, Penney had a thought. “I wonder what the person who was walking by the house thought as he saw first the screen, then the flower box then the dog fly from the second floor window. I imagine that he picked up his dog and ran like hell. I would have.” “Me, too,” I laughed, and so did she.

So that was our Sunday. Nu? What was yours like?

As always I wish you all a week filled with love and joy, peace and prosperity, good health and the wonder of discovery. Be strong and resolute, Haverim.

Again, Shabbat Shalom.

I send you all my love,

Josh

Morgan's escape

On another page you will note pictures of dogs and other lesser pets. There you will see Morgan the Wonder Dog, canine of my heart, bane of my existence. That she is smarter than most people I know, including myself, is obvious. That she knows and exploits this is, unfortunately, equally true.
For example... Last winter we had a heavy snowfall, eight inches of the white stuff, which a few days later was reduced on sidewalks to occasional patches of ice. To make a bad situation worse, my wife packed her bags and left me. No, she hadn’t finally come to her senses; she had a conference up in Cambridge. This meant I, I of all people, had to take the dog on her early morning walk, a joy I generally am more than willing to avoid.
So, we are walking, Morgan and I, and she pooped and I scooped and then I hit the inevitable patch of unseen ice. Flop-plop I flipped somehow managing to hold onto the bag of poop but releasing the leash. Morgan immediately realized she was free, but stayed around long enough to make sure I wasn’t dead (after all, no Josh equaled no breakfast). I wasn’t too sure myself. I’d managed to fall on my left hip, or what passes for my left hip since all that’s there now is steel and cement connecting femur to pelvis. I was sure I’d smashed it and wondered if the lack of excruciating pain meant that I was dead. Morgan, about 10 paces away, looked on with an expression of some concern (breakfast, now being in doubt). “Morgan, come!” I commanded menacingly. In vain.
“Ha! He lives,” the light in her eyes announced, and she frolicked away, leash dragging behind her. But then, to mock me she came back, circled me once (I was still aground, trying vainly to get up). I lunged for the leash, and missed. “Morgan, come here!” I said in my most authoritative voice. (Just how commanding I could be under the circumstances—prone, feet slipping on the ice as I tried to rise up, a bag of dog poop in my hands, you can only imagine.) Finally, as from the lagoon out of our most ancient amphibious ancestors arose I unsteadily achieved verticality. But Morgan had fled.
My limbs were sore, my chest was sore, my hip was sore, and my dog had run away. In all the world, all I had left was a bag of poop. But then, salvation. Morgan, who loves to ride in cars, saw that some people were opening their car door. She jumped in and commanded, “Drive, quickly, let the wind rustle through my ears as the air is sucked into my nostrils; drive, drive, drive.” The mother screamed in terror, the children, who had helped me gather in Morgan on previous escapes, screamed in delight, and grabbed the leash. I hobbled over to them, collected my disloyal dog and limped slowly home.
“Breakfast, Josh?” She asked, hopefully. “What happened to loyalty?” I asked. What happened to “if you’re hurt, I’m there for you”? “Instead of kibbles, how about some of that canned food?” she replied. “Why did you leave me when I called you?” “Because of the story I read last week.” “You’re hitting our books again?” “Only when you sleep.” “Which story?” “‘The Last Match.’” “That’s what you model your behavior on? The man is dying of hunger and cold, he calls his dog, and the dog abandons him?” “The dog left the man because the man was going to kill the dog and eat it.” “Oh, yeah, but I wouldn’t do that.” “You never know, you just never know. Open the door; let’s eat.” Well, I fed her, of course, but I also punished her. When I went out onto the deck to fill the bird feeders, I didn’t let her come out with me—she loves to chase squirrels out there and to see the birds flap away—so she sulked. It by now being late I grabbed my lunch bag and hopped into the car. As I drove off to school I looked out the window and saw that she was looking out at me with a smile on her face. I didn’t know quite why until I got to my office and noticed the poop bag still in my coat pocket. My lunch bag was safely at home. For those of you keeping score, it’s Dog 106, Human 0.