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.
