A Sad Tail (Dave's entry)

(Note: On Monday we came home from our walk about found an old golden retriever lying on the door mat in our garage, waiting for whomever to arrive and offer him shelter. Here's Dave's rendition of what happened next.)

   The golden hung out on our outside doormat through the evening, sleeping after slurping water and ham. We went down with offerings of chicken about 9:00 p.m., and with sun still well up in the sky, it being the Summer Solstice. As Joanne fed him boneless chicken, upon closer observation I confirmed he was indeed a he, albeit neutered.
   Turns out the chicken and broth were a bit too hot. He paused from his dining and actually walked through the door Joanne had left open and into our family room. We called him out, and out he came. Turns out he understands "Come" and "Sit." But he seemed spooked by Joanne's camera near his head as she tried to take his picture. I noticed his water bowl had become a bit grungy, so I picked it up and walked with it around the corner to the hose bib by the garage door through which he had first entered our house. When I turned on the hose to fill the bowl, the confounded anti-siphon valve, which is apparently an integral part of every hose bib up here now, let out a God-awful squeal. Spooked him big time. He took off down the driveway, disappearing behind rocks and things green, purple and pink. When I next saw him he was northbound and down on the pavement, heading toward the end of our cul de sac. I whistled for him to come back. He looked over his shoulder and quickened his pace--away.
   Such is the saga of the damaged old golden.
   Pity. Yet perhaps just as well. We couldn't have kept him. Too many vet bills buried within those shakey haunches and that fur coat. But animal rescue is big up here. Perhaps he could have found, and may still find, a decent place in which to lie and die, instead of the cold forest floor toward which he was heading. At least he had his belly full and had had some rest. God only knows what human abuse caused him to be so skittish.
   Seems fitting that I write this here and now, enshrouded in the early morning fog we first saw last night miles away, that made parts of our distant view disappear and turned the rolling mountains of south Vancouver Island into a mysterious sort of Monument Valley, looking like the jagged, austere spires and plateaus of Arizona. Summer fog--reminds me of those of SoCal's Channel Islands. But today's fog compels the tugs I can't see in Rosario Strait before us to bellow their mournful lament, almost as though for the dog and the cruel aspects of humanity.