April's a funny month. One day it's winter, the next day it's summer. Or more accurately - for five or six days it's winter and then there's one moment of summer. Like we had all this snow last week, and then on Friday for about seven minutes late in the afternoon it was sunny and 78 degrees. Once in a while it's like spring, in the 40s or 50s, drizzly or sunny, buds on the trees, a little green grass here and there, birds yakkin' their heads off, vees of geese heading north, a great blue heron hunting for snacks in the river, and it reminds me of an orchestra tuning up - bits and pieces of melody come through, but basically it's just pure cacophony.The other morning I expected it to be cold, but when I opened the door it was balmy. The temperature had risen overnight. Days of rain had left us in a humidor, and the aroma was pure spring. I suddenly thought of Buster's Way.
Buster's Way is a walk the dogs and I take that starts at a scenic turnout along the lake about a mile down the road. We cross the highway and take a path into the woods, along the river, same river that we live on, only farther down and on the other side. The path leads to the snowmobile trail - the old railroad grade - and continues alongside it, heading west. We don't walk this path in the winter (then it's better for cross-country skiing), so maybe that's why a whiff of spring made me think of it. I don't know.
This path wasn't always called Buster's Way, but one day while on it Buster refused to turn back, so we followed the trail farther than usual. Then he disappeared from sight. Queenie and I plodded on. I became slightly peeved. The woods opened up to our right and there stood Buster atop a slight rise. As soon as he saw us he dashed down what appeared to be a trail, obviously intent on following it. Queenie looked at me, I said OK, and she trotted after her pal. I followed.
The trail flowed up and down in gently curving swells. It was wide, and like the rest of the path, sandy and covered with pine needles. At the top of each rise Buster stopped, looked back, watched for me. As soon as he saw me, off he'd go, down the hill, around the curve, carrying on with his adventure. Buster is 22 pounds of intent, and most often it is useless to try to dissuade him from what he has in mind. I choose my battles.
Eventually the trail flattened and straightened out, and I saw it led to the highway. I was able to get Buster and Queenie to stop so I could get their leashes on, and we crossed the road. We were just down a bit from the scenic turnout. When we reached it, we cut through a buffer of trees and came out on the beach.
This, now, is Buster's Way. Sometimes known as Turf 'n' Surf.
I have read about "intent" and "purpose" in various self-help kind of books. In one you reach up and pretend to grab on to a strap, like in a bus or subway train, and let the wave of intent pull you along. All I have to do is snap on Buster's leash. In another, purpose just kind of comes to you, flows to you, once you are open to it, and yes, I don't get it, unless they mean like every morning when Buster's had enough sleep and lets me know it's time for breakfast, then treats, then go outside, then more treats ...
This morning, Buster was intent on taking a walk. I made him wait until the sun had warmed things up a bit, and then we headed out. We walked Buster's Way, and when we got to the beach, he peeled out like a shot of cooped up spring. Queenie got held up sniffing something in the grasses; I went back to get her. Buster sped back up the beach, gave me a look, turned and tore flat out once again. Queenie bucked, then ran in her hobbled way after him.
I wonder how a little dog can have so much purpose about him and how I can have so little. I wander through life. Focus eludes me. I meander down a path a little dog shows me. Buster chooses his paths and pursues them (forgive me) doggedly. Even though I don't know his reasons, I have little doubt that they exist. But where do they come from? Queenie's more like me - happy to let someone else lead, occasionally distracted, going off on her own, but happy to go along, not really knowing why, just trusting ... something. What is it?Buster had a brief career as a book reviewer. Click here for a sample.
