When I was little, I adored Lassie. The idea of being rescued from a burning building or the bottom of a deep well by a devoted, perfectly groomed collie appealed to me much more than the standard knight-in-shining-armour routine.
Lassie could drag a full-grown human from the flames, bark for help, fend off a grizzly, or dig a hole around your body - pinned under a fallen tree - allowing you to crawl free. Lassie would save your life week after week, yet expected nothing more in return than a bowl of dog chow, a pat on the head, a warm place to sleep. Lassie was a very handy dog to have around.
I wasn’t thinking of Lassie when I hit the trail for a 15-mile run last Wednesday, but by the end of the day I was. Now that it’s finally cooled off some, I’m taking my dogs, Borage and Jigs, along on my wilderness jaunts.
Although most of the time my dogs can be more trouble than help, I feel better having them by my side when I go for a backcountry trail run. Being part of a “pack” in mountain lion and bear country gives me comfort. And my terrier always wears a cow bell - the perfect alert system warning all wildlife that a motley crew’s approaching.
Borage, my Alaskan husky, has a thing for cattle. I’m not sure why he takes such pleasure in these large, lumbering beasts, but he seems to have made a sport of following them just to annoy them. I am constantly yelling “NO” at Borage, reminding him - just as he catches sight of a cow up ahead - to move along and mind his own business. Bad Borage, I scold him.
The other day during the middle of my run, I found myself in prime cow country. The mooing brutes were scattered up and down the mountain; they tromped through the creekbed, littered the ground with watery cow pies, napped in the sun right on the trail, stared at us as we ran by. Over and over again, I yelled at Borage, “NO! Get over here and behave yourself!” He always came slinking back, head held low, shooting me dirty looks for ruining his fun.
Eventually, we made it through the bovine maze and began climbing the switchbacks up the mountain. Borage trotted along several yards in front of me; Jigs ran right behind me at my heels. I listened to music through my headphones, admired the aspen leaves just beginning to turn yellow, and plodded along at my usual snail’s pace - lost in a daydream.
Suddenly out of nowhere Borage slammed on his brakes and wheeled around on his haunches. He paused for a fleeting second, looking back down the trail past me - his ears perked up and head cocked. And then he bolted, flying past me in a blur. I stopped and glanced back just in time to see a large black bull thundering up the trail towards us. It took me seconds to register what was happening and even then I still didn’t quite get it - I’ve never been chased by a bull before.
Maybe the crazed bovine thought I was a rodeo clown or a matador (I was wearing red). Maybe he was just moving down the “road” and we happened to be in his lane. Either way, it didn’t look good.
When Jigs, my terrier, spotted the massive creature barreling towards us, he jumped up into my arms. With just a few short yards to spare, Borage dove at the bull, barking and snarling like a wolf. He cut the bull off the path, sending the snorting beast back down the mountain in a cloud of dust.
There’s no way of knowing if Borage just saw that charging beefhead as an opportunity for a little fun, or if he took the unusual situation as a serious threat to his dear owner’s life and limb. After finding myself practically staring down the nostrils of a belligerent bovine, Borage’s quick thinking sure felt like a near-Lassie experience to me.
Sometimes, Borage is a very handy dog to have around.
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