The Subtle Landscape

  Before setting up her studio in Hot Springs, wife returned to site of a previous residency in west central Arkansas* to visit with the two horses that lived in the barn below the apartment in which the resident resided.  Fred and Molly.

  The situation is remote, hot, and dusty.  National Park Rangers visit only rarely and the horses thus largely must fend for themselves.  Pat them on the neck or rump, flies scatter as dust cloud erupts.  When he did appear, rider ranger made a big deal about showing them “who’s boss”.

  Wife bathed them regularly and provided exotic additions to their diet like apples and carrots.  Attendant snorts and vocalizations were more rich and varied than could have been imagined. Wherever they might be, they’d rush to greet her whenever she’d appear.  Which they did enthusiastically early in July even though it’d been several years since her time in that park.

  That reunion brought to her mind one at camp during the summer of her thirteenth year.  Early on she had developed blood poisoning so severe that she passed out and rode the ambulance to a hospital where she spent two weeks (out of eight).  No one from home was able to visit.  As she began to recover all she could think about was Lucifer.

  Lucifer was a horse that none would ride.  He frequently kicked other horses and, less frequently, people.  Not possessed of that knowledge however, she’d noticed him the first day because he made vigorously about in a ring all by himself.  She’d wondered, approached, he came right over, and accepted her strokes.

  Wouldn’t happen in this day and age, but camp let her try to ride that devil.  They had quickly developed a deep mutual understanding and she knew he’d be waiting for her return.  Upon her release they rode every day after which she’d brush him down and braid his mane.

  Last day at camp was race day.  Riders would take horses through a difficult and technical series of obstacles including thirteen jumps.  Some (senior level!) were to go down.  The audience included parents and nail biting staff.  War hero father grew more nervous than he’d been at Guadalcanal.

  Invigorated by the commotion and excitement, the bay’s nostrils flared and he foamed at the mouth.  When their turn came, the little girl (she’s only 5’4” now) leaned over and whispered in Lucifer’s ear “I’m a little scared.  Don’t throw me.  We’re going to be a team!”

  They won the whole dang thing.  

*cf 8/7/09

**Wife took me riding once in Utah.  Asked for “the ones with most spirit!”  Gulp.  She took off, mine followed.  I fell off and I’m here to tell you it’s a long way down.

  With wife out of town, dog doesn’t get the amount of exercise to which he’s become accustomed.  He’s thirteen, slower than he used to be, but still just as curious, so I can’t take him on five mile perambulation that does wife and still get to work on time.

  So last Saturday he had plenty of energy and we set out.  Once he realized that we weren’t just going around the block, he became so enthusiastic that he grabbed the leash in his mouth and began to pull.

  Our route takes us down a hill, across a busy street, by a park, across another busy street, and thence to a park along the river.  All that way I keep the pressure on the leash (once he gave it back) and hew to the middle of the road.  Those two things usually keep him from doing his business in residential areas.

  We nosed through a few hissing geese, dodged some bikers, and thoroughly marked off our territory.  After a mile or so we got to the spot where, when it’s warm, we unleash him and let him jump in the river to cool off.  Which I did and he did.

  Oddly for a Labrador he’s not a great swimmer so I wasn’t surprised, at first, when he seemed to flounder a bit.  But then he coughed a few times, regurgitated a small bit, and then passed out.  He went completely limp and began to sink below the surface down into the murk.

  Horror stricken, I got to him just before he fell from view and was swept away in the strong current.  Cradling him in my arms I stumbled and we both went under.  Quickly regaining my footing I soon had his head above the surface and made for shore.

  The bank there is steep and rocky and I made it up with some difficulty.  I laid him down and could tell he was looking at me, though without raising his head.  All possible outcomes ran through my head, worst first.  What would I tell his true love?

  After about fifteen minutes he rolled from side to side a bit and after another quarter-hour was on his feet ready to go.  It sure felt like a miracle.   I was light on my feet even though my knee still needs something magic to happen. 

  Only problem between there and home then was the fact that all of the duty bags I’d stuffed in my shorts fell out when we fell in.  He went three times. Fortunately I’ve trained him to back into shrubbery when it is time to make a deposit and thus leave no obvious trace.  Uh, a visual one anyway.

  Bowl of cherries tasted mighty fine that morning.

*Painting above is “Ophelia” by Pre-Raphaelite John Everett Millais.  It hangs in the Tate.  Ophelia from Hamlet just after a branch broke on the tree into which she’d climbed, she fell into the brook below, and drowned.  Why that picture with this post?  Whenever the image of lifeless dog underwater surfaces in my brain I conjure up Ophelia as sort of a cerebral side step.