[x_section style=”margin: 0px 0px 0px 0px; padding: 45px 0px 45px 0px; “][x_row inner_container=”true” marginless_columns=”false” bg_color=”” style=”margin: 0px auto 0px auto; padding: 0px 0px 0px 0px; “][x_column bg_color=”” type=”1/1″ style=”padding: 0px 0px 0px 0px; “][x_text]Sun streaming on my face, I wake slowly. Rolling over I give Baylor a squeeze. Tell him good morning, signaling that he is free to rise from bed. Scott and Gale returned to their weekday Anchorage responsibilities, we’ve the cabin all to ourselves.
Baylor fed, I wander onto the front porch. Listen to the sounds of the river, stare up at the vibrant green swaying ever so slightly against the clear, blue sky. Marvel at my good fortune.
Clouds begin piling up as the day wears on, rain is on the way. Baylor sprawled happily on the rug, I leave him at the cabin. Cruise a couple miles down the road to a small building to exchange quarters for clean laundry and a hot shower.
It’s strange to ride without Baylor. No one smiling up at me, just a vast unused space floating to my right. It’s not nearly as fun. I fly down the road, excited to get my copilot back.
Walking in the cabin I call out a hello. Baylor’s sitting just inside the door. Unmoving. Ears pinned back against his head. Uh-oh.
96.5% of the time that dog is a model citizen, following all the rules, showing good judgement. But every once in a while Baylor goes berserk for reasons I’ll never know. There was the year we spent my birthday in Seattle. He stayed home while I went to work (as he’d done without incident for nearly 2 years). For some reason on that day he ate the cake off the counter, flung the couch cushions around the living room, and threw up on the birthday-card-laden mail pile. I came home to a dog with guiltily pinned back ears and a house that looked like it had hosted a raging frat party.
So I’ve reason to be concerned as I scan the cabin. Puzzled I note the untouched counters, the dog food bag still in tact. Nothing’s out of place. Everything looks the same. I stare at Baylor, Why the guilty face? What’s going on?
And then he turns around. I see his back leg. Oh, buddy, I say running over for a closer look. He apparently spent the entire hour I was gone chewing on it. Turning a small cut into a palm-sized wound.
His mopey face perhaps the saddest part of all, I offer a salmon treat to cheer him. Get out the first aid kit, cut away fur, wash out the wound. The year my sister took Baylor to vet tech school as a practice pup pays off; he just sits there calmly as I do my best to doctor him.
More treats given, I sit down to log some time on the computer. Baylor starts to sneak out of sight and I call him back immediately, You’re on 24-hour surveillance, dude, gotta stay with me at all times.
I laugh at his insolent look. At his dramatic sigh as he lies down beside me.
We’re two peas in a pod. A little bit of sass a good sign that all is well.
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