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January 1, 2010

Jim Atwell: Our excellent 'stay-cation’

Anne and I decided we wanted to get away for Christmas — travel to somewhere fresh and exotic, full of adventure. We chose Milford Center. Only twenty miles away, I know, but far from Fly Creek’s breakneck pace.

Our friend David, who lives in the Milford Center hills, had asked if we could watch his place while he flew to Kansas for Christmas.

(He made it, thank God, ahead of a blizzard out there.) Of course we said yes, and got ready to take over David’s roomy farmhouse and supervision of his dogs, cats, and chickens. Wait, you say! That sounds like your life in Fly Creek! Well, yes, in a way; but with more dogs, cats, hens and roosters— plus the genteel ambiance of Milford Center. It’s the perfect stay-cation.

We left Fly Creek on the eve of Christmas Eve, and I’m writing this the very next morning. A lot has happened.

Because one of us had to stay north to forward our phone south, Anne and I traveled in two units. I left first, driving through blowing snow with Simon in his crate and a cargo of non-essentials I could be trusted with. I hauled, of instance, the ice-cream maker, a mutual Christmas gift due for a maiden trial down in the sunnier south.

Anne, after dealing with Verizon, waited just long enough to make sure the transfer had taken place, then set out with an excited Blue, most of our refrigerator’s contents, and the suitcases.

Though Milford Center must be south of home by at least some degree of latitude, it turned out to be just as cold and snowy. Simon and I arrived in blowing flakes, but we got a warm welcome at the door. Bouncing up and down in greeting were Toby and Oscar the dogs; and, standing at a dignified remove, Lazlo and Madeleine the cats. I built a fire in the wood stove and waited for the second unit to arrive.

Toby, you should know, is roughly half German shepherd and half greyhound; he could easily be a saddle animal for a fouryear- old. Oscar is shorter and broader. He’s seventy pounds, with a Brillo coat and an irresistible, raffish grin. Both have tails that, happily wagging, can easily clear a coffee table.

Blue knows these dogs, and his arrival set off paroxysms of joy, with lots of cavorting and ritual sniffing and the like. Then, because Anne and I were too knackered to cook, we sat by the fire with pizza from Sonny’s, down by Price Chopper.

It was idyllic: crackling fire, happy couple, sprawling dogs and hunkereddown cats stretching from our feet, it seemed, to the horizon.

When we headed up the narrow stairs with Blue and Simon, the rest of the menagerie stayed by the dying fire. Because of my restlessness these days, Anne and I sleep in separate rooms; and so David had made up his room for Anne and a guest room for me. Anne took Blue and his bed to her room, and Simon and I settled down in ours.

Hours later I woke to hear a lot of traffic in the hallway. The big two dogs, with eight paws and seemingly hundreds of toenails were galloping up the stairs, rattling across to my door, nosing hard against it.

I remembered. David had told me that Toby and Oscar mostly slept in my room. But I couldn’t let them in. I didn’t want to upset Simon, who was adjusting to life in a different house. And I didn’t want Oscar, and especially Toby, flopping onto the bed with me. Toby, not quite pony-sized, could still roll over and squash my ribcage.

They gave up after fifteen minutes of snuffles and trooped downstairs. Then two hours later they were back again, and two hour after that. All that snuffling, all those clattering toenails! Simon, to his credit, raised a head each time, gave a disdainful look at the door, and went back to sleep. And I did, too. Each of the times.

I gave up at six-thirty when whines outside the door took on a panicked tone. Oh, of course. David, an avid runner, is up at five each morning, and normally the beasties would have long since been outside to relieve themselves. The dogs greeted me with wild joy and fell over themselves back down the steps.

But we’d hardly reached the bottom when I heard more toenails behind me. Blue, not to be left out, had escaped Anne’s room and was rushing to join the melee. I opened the back door and all three dove outside to leap, cavort, and finally take care of essentials. In ski pajamas, I stayed inside, forehead against the cold glass.

Ten minutes later I called them in and realized at once they were staring expectantly at their food bowls. What to do now? First I hauled Blue back upstairs and pushed him in Anne’s room. Then I came down to find that the door to the back pantry was stuck, blocking me from dog food.

Muttering un-Christmassy things, I added to my pajamas a coat, pair of boots, and my Elmer Fudd cap. Then came wading through the snow to the back porch and through it to the outside of the pantry door. I managed to yank it open. Dogs fed, I again climbed the wooden hill, as the Brits say. This one has a good fifteen narrow steps to the top. But just as I reached the bedroom door, another wild clatter of toenails. Those dogs weren’t going to be blocked out of their room again. I gave up.

Simon didn’t seem to mind. He slept between my ankles and the two doggies flopped next to the bed for another two hours, snoring and belching and worse. Over the last fifty years, I’ve often slept in dormitories; but never, I think, in a kennel.

There’ll be more to tell you, I know. This is only our second day. Jim Atwell lives in Fly Creek.

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