Relaxation And Mastication In The Woods aka "Oops, He Did It Again"

I took thirty minutes out of my work-from-home day ( I get a couple of those each week) to walk the White Husky.  I reluctantly did this as I am finally going to get some action on the career front: I will teach my first class next week and really need to do a bang up job.  Unfortunately it is on a topic that I was less than familiar with when I started work two months ago, and now I know just enough to be dangerous—in case my boss is reading this, don’t worry, I still have six days to cram yet!

To put it mildly, I am a bit tense.  The pressure to learn this computer stuff which really seems like it’s in a foreign language, coupled with barn and house chores, errands, and any other usual life responsibilities is weighing quite heavily right now. Even the smallest amount of time spent away from work, even if it is on my walks with Gunnar—one of my favorite things ever—is time I can’t afford to waste right now.

Today Gunnar wanted to walk up the path to the woods and since the gate was closed that meant The Hunters were not staying at their cabin, or more importantly, hunting in those woods. I kept Gunnar on a fairly loose leash as I do now, but not so loose he could wrap me around a tree if he decided to chase a deer, which he did on our morning walk today. Those white-tails are ignoring my memo about not foraging between the hours of 5 and 7am. I also had to police someone’s brass this morning on the side of the road. The SIDE of the road I live on, literally 100 feet from my driveway! There were two 30/6 shells; I couldn’t believe it. Who is shooting down the road; or, who is tossing their brass out the window as they drive? I have no time to ponder that stupid thought right now.

As the White Husky and I hike up the steep path into the woods I look around at the intense beauty the woods has even with no leaves on the trees and minimal snow: it’s breathtaking.  I look up to my right and see a rickety deer stand just a few yards from the path and wonder if The Hunters would mind if I turn that deer stand into a cute little cubicle writing studio.  You know, complete with waterproof beanbag chair and binocular stand—for creativity.  I’d love to see their faces when they try to climb up the ladder and they see pink curtains hung in it!

We continue on our walk with Gunnar rooting around in the snow constantly, the smells in the woods attracting him with every step. I am a little leery of letting him sniff in one spot too long as that is how we conjured up a huge meadow vole the last time.  Meadow vole is a fancy—or at least less disgusting—term for “field mouse.” I still have the heeby jeebies though. Why? I’m getting there.

As tense as I started that walk, I realized that I would not be so uptight or inclined to pick people off from a watchtower with a pellet gun if I would just be allowed to walk in the woods at least once a day. The path to the woods is 50 feet from my house; we own six of those wooded acres for crying out loud! (The Hunters own 80 acres back there, but let us cross the path every now and again and we let them all traipse up and down our driveway with their trucks). It is so relaxing in those woods, as if there's sedative sprinkles in the air-now that's a novel idea.

Much more relaxed, the White Husky and I meander back down the trail. He swerves back and forth sniffing everything, and then stopping sharp to look around as if he is stalking something big.  Gunnar looks back at me too every once in a while as if to say, “Lady, I am busy tracking here; do you think you could waddle a little more quietly?” He continues (yes, Gunnar the White Husky), “And while we’re on the subject, that baby talk might work for those miserable excuses you call dogs in the house, but that is not how I roll—so knock it off.” The G-man is rather harsh today.

We are almost to the end of the wooded path, about to cross under the closed gate when Gunnar pounces; this time I see what he’s got because of recent experience and due to the apparent frozen and spread out nature of the carcass. Unlike the poopy-flavored lollipops the Chihuahuas love to snack on, this beast has just gone up to the invisible ice-cream truck playing annoying trolley music and scrounged a mouse-sicle.  Why does he do this when I’m about to feed him his dinner?!

This frozen mouse was just lying on top of a snow bank and now the tail is hanging out the left side of Gunnar’s mouth. This time I even grabbed the mouse-sicle tail to try and free the trapped little body.  So, we go through the whole rigmarole again: “Gunnar! Gunnar! Drop it! Release! Release! Don’t do it!” Why have I not taught this dog to “Release” yet? I even get to hear the bones crunch this time--I'm actually just going to pretend it was ice.  And again, where is his absentee father in all of this? Spreading Old Man Taylor’s ashes over the garden: the garden! As if spreading ashes now is going to keep me from killing the fruitin’ vegetables next spring! Why am I no longer relaxed? I was just in the woods?!

Why can’t mice give each other a good ol’ Viking funeral?  You know, put a horn helmet on the deceased and set them on fire. That’s sure what’s going to happen when I catch them in my traps in the barn—and garage.  They will make their way to the “smoker,” aka the crematorium, aka Old Man Taylor…I think I’ll skip the little horn helmet though.

*P.S. Technically Vikings didn’t actually wear helmets with horns, but it is a cool notion.



The Tale of Desperaux, "a gentlemen, not a mouse"- so he says
courtesy of http://www.moviewallpaper.net/