To be a dog

GLEN LAKE, Mich. – We’re here now in early May.  On the drive up, we saw the signs of spring in Northern Michigan.  Lilacs in bloom, apple blossoms on the trees. Seasonal businesses, like the Cherry Hut restaurant and the Cherry Bowl drive-in, are just opening … shrugging off winter slumber like bears after hibernation.

Today, though, it’s sleeting, the lake a tempest of shrill winds and high waves. Seagulls find refuge on our dock, lined in a row, some two by two as if waiting for Noah.

And Riley eyes those gulls with a bright, pointed stare.  She stands inside, in front of the cottage’s large window facing the lake. (Friend Linus, our terrier mix, is at her side.)  A Golden Retriever, Riley is nine years old with the white face to show for it.  But she’s strong, able … her head up, her tail now pointed.

I know I can simply open the door, and she’ll race to the dock – not so much to catch a gull but to make her presence known.  It’s instinct.  It is who … and why … she is.

We Weavers have long come to Michigan, and we almost always bring our dogs.  That’s hardly unusual.  Dog lovers often bring their best friends in tow.  But up here where nature abounds, a dog lends an extra dimension to the experience.

We see gulls on the dock and enjoy the sight of them; a dog, though, sees the prospect of a hunt … the heart beats harder, the eyebrows arch, the muscles strain and feet shift – a racehorse at the gate.

To watch a dog at that moment is to realize the things we humans don’t perceive in nature.  Riley will appreciate a gull’s every gesture: its head darting from one side to another, its wing slightly lifted by the wind. Each movement  prompts Riley to stare even more intently.

And a group of gulls … why, then she’s in heaven. Her own head shifts mere fractions of an inch, but quickly, as she hones in on each gull’s flick and flutter.

Then there’s that other sense, smell. We’ve all seen dogs’ noses move with the wind.  We can only imagine what they’re detecting.  The science is fascinating: humans have about 5 million odor receptors; dogs enjoy up to 220 million.  Why else do we count on them to detect drugs, find those missing in earthquake rubble, even sniff out cancer?

I imagine if humans had the same ability, our heads would explode.

I enjoy sitting next to Riley on a windy day.  Her head again is up and alert, but it’s her nose that’s compelling to watch.  Not only does it twitch slightly side-to-side, it stretches and expands with each sniff – a marvelous olfactory canvas absorbing an ever-larger portrait.

“What you smellin’, Ri?” I ask her then.  “What’s out there?”

My words send her nose racing even more.  As if I detected something she hadn’t.

Hardly.

So when we’re here at the lake, sitting on the dock facing high winds, my eyes will catch the sun’s glint off the waves and the deep blue skies; my ears will hear the crash of water and the gale’s roar.

Riley will experience all of this – but so much more.

To be a dog … if only for a day.