The Gunflint Trail
By Ben the Dog Smith
I see the suitcases. I watch as they pack, grabbing and arranging clothes. I begin to pace. I know they are leaving. I don’t want them to go.
She sings the “Crate Dog” song. We know the song. We know what it means. We run into the bedroom. We take our positions. Coco on the floor on the dog bed next to our bed. Oliver in his crate. Me on the bed. Charlotte following the cookie in her hand.
But this time, after she has handed out the cookies, she calls for me: “Come, Ben, come!” I come, but I don’t understand.
I worry. They are leaving, that much I know. There are suitcases and bags being loaded into our car. She attaches a leash and leads me to the car. She opens the back door and motions that I should jump inside.
The kennel? The vet? Places I fear. Places I love. Why? I wonder. Why am I going? Where am I going? Why do the others get to stay at home?
We start driving. In soft voices they tell me I am a good boy. They pet me. We drive. We stop at places where I don’t know the scents. He walks me. I am distracted by the smells, the sounds, the space. I am distracted by my fear.
We drive on and on and on.
We stop. He walks me while she enters a place I’ve never been before. More new scents, new sounds, and new spaces. Fearful now and yet…They are calm. They are happy.
I am confused. I try not to be, but I am scared. Are they giving me away? Will I ever get back home? Memories of my life before they brought me home come to me. Always hungry. Always wrong. Always scared.
Back into the car, we drive, but only a short distance. A new place with a kitchen, a sofa and a chair, a bedroom and bathroom. I stay with her, close to her, as she unpacks bags. I stay with her while he brings the luggage and bags from the car.
They sit and talk. She hugs me, and I crawl onto her lap. He pets me. I begin to relax.
We walk. I meet a dog, who barks at me. I meet some ducks, who run from me. I meet new people, who make friends with me.
I sleep on the bed next to her. She places her hand on my head. She is there, and he is next to her. I am safe.
In the morning, he leaves. I lie on the sofa next to her. She reads. She types. She places her hand on my head and kisses me. I doze.
He returns, we eat lunch. They put on coats and boots. I sit waiting for my turn, waiting for my leash.
We walk. A long walk in another new space. Lots of smells. The ground is muddy. Other animals have come this way. Horses, I think. Nose to the ground, I sniff other, wild smells. We walk up hill. I’m excited.
“Heel,” she says. I slow down, but new scents beckon me. We hear other people. We hear clomping. He takes me off the road to make way for what is coming. She stands near the trees.
People on horses approach. “Please, don’t hide. You are scaring the horses—it’s better if they see you. They need to know you won’t eat them,” says the woman on the lead horse.
We step out of the woods, onto the edge of the path. It takes all my will power not to bark. I hold back the bark, but a whimper or two escape.
After dinner, we walk along the lake. The water moves. The water slaps the rocks. I dip my paw in and pull it back. Cold. Wet. Noisy. Water.
The next day it rains. We get in the car. Are we going home? I wonder. But no, we drive to a town. There are people. There are dogs. I try not to bark. Instead, I whimper my greetings.
We drive some more. “I want to look,” she says. She stops the car. We get out and walk.
This morning, they bring out the luggage. They pack. She empties the fridge and cabinets. He takes bags to the car. They are quiet. They are sad. I am scared. I stand by the door. I want to get into the car. I am afraid they will forget me. Afraid that now they will leave me.
But they don’t forget me. They don’t leave me.
I hop onto the back seat. I look out the window. I sniff the air. Familiar now. She drives. They talk. We are going home.
I drift off to sleep.