I’ve been on the road for two months now and put over 10,000 miles on my vehicle.
I’m writing my column from Brookings, South Dakota sitting on a blanket under a shade tree in the town park. My dogs, Jigs and Borage, are asleep by my side, choosing to bask in the warm sun. They look like lazy lions sprawled out in the green grass. They like this life.
So far - knock on wood - my road trip has gone smoothly. Yeah, my schedule has been packed with one dog mushing presentation after another, but it all has fallen together without a hitch. Well, there was that one day...
Sometimes Borage gets tired of being the star. He wants to do things that average dogs get to do - dig holes, roll in cow patties, swim and hunt. But Borage has to remain clean for our talks. He is the one everyone wants to see. I’m just his manager, his agent, his gopher-girl. All I ask of Borage is that he remains clean; no one wants to pet and hug and kiss a stinky snowdog. But that can be a lot to ask of a canine, especially Borage.
One morning a few weeks ago, I decided to get up at the crack of dawn and head to nearby Millersburg, Ohio to take advantage of the fine Amish restaurants and then go on a long hike with the dogs. It was one of those rare days when I had only one late afternoon talk.
After some killer biscuits and gravy, the dogs and I were off to a local park that advertised an endless maze of hiking trails. I was dying to go on a good long walk somewhere that I could let Borage loose to run without having to worry about traffic. Jigs is still fine-tuning the “come” command so he remains attached to me by a long leash.
We were about an hour into our hike when Borage disappeared into some dense brush. I yelled for him but wasn’t too concerned because he always comes when called.
Borage did come running back to me but this time he wasn’t alone - a giant, lifeless ground hog dangled from his jaws. Borage’s beautiful white legs, chest, and muzzle glistened red with fresh blood stains.
I yelled at him to drop the groundhog NOW but he refused. He was too proud of his fine catch to just leave it behind plus he didn’t want Jigs or me to take it for ourselves.
So he decided to carry the 20-some pound groundhog back to the car.
We were about 4 miles from the trailhead and much of the walk was out in open grasslands. The sun beat down on us; the air was thick and muggy. Mosquitoes flew in clouds around our heads. But Borage remained persistent. This was one souvenir he couldn’t leave behind. His pace got slower and slower but he lugged that hog along just out of my reach. I was thankful no one passed us on the trail.
Finally, we got to the car. Borage deposited his trophy by the trunk as if he thought I would just load it right up for him. By this time, the heat was overcoming him. He trotted straight to the marshland by the parking lot.
Good, I thought, that’ll get the blood off of him.
He sunk down into the dark, swampy water until only his nose and eyes and ears were showing. He stayed there cooling down for 10 minutes.
It was time to go so I called him out of the water, making sure that he couldn’t make a run for the groundhog again. When I got close to the cesspool that Borage was soaking in, the smell hit me.
Ugh, the thick, black pond water smelled like death. And now, so did Borage.
He was dripping wet and still blood-covered. I didn’t want to put him in my car but I had no choice.
I had to find a place to bathe him right away. Now, it was a race against the clock. In an hour, I needed to be on the road to get to my afternoon talk in time.
Thankfully, there was an animal hospital in a nearby small town and they told me of a self-service bathing facility only 20 minutes away.
It took three washes and rinses to get him sparkling clean.
A few hours later, Borage was the star again, lounging on the floor while kids stroked his silky white fur and kissed him on the forehead.
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