Early one morning last week, well before dawn, I, barefoot and clad only in pajamas, raced about the yard howling like a madman. Why, you might ask?
D. K. Wall:The short answer: I live with dogs. Over the years, that cast has included a German Shepherd, a beagle, a corgi, a more or less chow, and an even dozen Siberian Huskies. Some of you are now nodding with deep understanding, needing absolutely no further explanation for my morning shenanigans.
D. K. Wall:For those who require a slightly longer answer, which almost certainly includes my perplexed neighbors, let me first take you back to the reign of His Royal Highness Little Prince Typhoon Phooey. He would be one of those dozen Siberian huskies.
D. K. Wall:When he originally came to us through a breed rescue, his name was simply Ty. I prefer two syllable names, the better to communicate with a dog, and asked my readers for suggestions.
D. K. Wall:So many great alternatives were offered, but I somehow chose the name of a natural disaster. He spent his years with us living up or down, depending on your perspective, to that expectation in every conceivable and many inconceivable ways.
D. K. Wall:One of Typhoon's most astonishing attributes was his speed. I don't just mean that he was fast. His footwork was breathtaking. He could rocket down straightaways, then twist and turn like a ballroom dancer who had consumed entirely too much espresso.
D. K. Wall:He deployed those incredible skills toward a singular canine passion, rabbit hunting. For him, it was pure sport, the thrill of the chase.
D. K. Wall:Few rabbits, once in his sights, managed to dodge, bounce, or corkscrew their way to freedom. I lost count of the number of times I watched him run down his quarry while cheerfully ignoring my shouts to stop.
D. K. Wall:That was another of his gifts. Typhoon possessed some of the strongest Siberian Selective Deafness I've ever witnessed. The innate ability to tune out those annoying human requests the instant they become inconvenient.
D. K. Wall:To be clear, I did not approve of his bloodlust for bouncing bunnies. Personally, I think rabbits are quite cute. And so Typhoon and I maintained a long standing feud, my quest to save the cute critters from a horrible fate versus his solemn vow to eliminate them.
D. K. Wall:Thus, whenever Typhoon requested yard time, I left him inside the house staring forlornly through the glass while I searched for any wee wild hares dumb enough to be loitering inside the fence.
D. K. Wall:If you have seen those cute videos of Siberian huskies talking, you might wonder if they're real. I can assure you that they are. Sibes have an astounding vocabulary.
D. K. Wall:Having lived with so many for so long, I understand every word, especially the four letter ones. Nothing amuses the neighbors quite like overhearing a spirited conversation between me and one of my dogs, particularly when I warn them to watch their language.
D. K. Wall:So there Typhoon would be inside the house, loudly and colorfully cataloging every scoundrel in my family tree, while I hunted rabbits to prevent him from hunting them.
D. K. Wall:Since rabbits are quite adept at hiding, sometimes I missed one before releasing the little royal prince. To reduce the carnage, I invested in a flashlight. Not just any light, mind you, but one that could turn a dark yard into high noon. It proved particularly helpful on the many 2AM excursions Typhoon demanded over the years.
D. K. Wall:Alas, poor Typhoon left this world two years ago. I miss him and his grumbly ways dearly. But the rabbit population has celebrated his departure with reckless abandon. Not a single one has met its maker in my presence since.
D. K. Wall:Until last week.
D. K. Wall:I had been awake for a while when the first set of furry paws trotted into my study around six. Yes, my lazy dogs sleep in while I work. That first canine was none other than Landon. Sweet, goofy, wouldn't hurt a fly Landon. The canine opposite of Typhoon in every measurable way.
D. K. Wall:This dog lacks the hunting instincts of a gnat. His only confirmed kills have been dust bunnies, those inevitable tumbleweeds of Siberian fur found drifting through any home that houses the breed.
D. K. Wall:Despite his sweet reputation, old habits die hard. I engaged my years of experience in rabbit removal, sweeping my solar flare of a flashlight across the various nooks and crannies of my yard while imagining Typhoon somewhere behind me stridently protesting the unfairness of it all.
D. K. Wall:Having declared the yard free of varmints, I released Landon into the wild. He sniffed, He peed. Sniffed some more. Peed again. A perfectly normal, utterly uneventful morning. Until Landon froze.
D. K. Wall:I was standing in the pavilion at the center of the yard, too far from Landon to intervene, but close enough to see every horrible second of what was about to unfold. A rabbit with spectacularly poor timing had chosen that precise moment to investigate whether the grass truly was greener on the other side of the fence.
D. K. Wall:I'm not really sure who was more surprised. Landon standing nose to nose with actual wildlife, the rabbit staring into those ice blue Siberian eyes, or me rooted helplessly in my too distant spot watching destiny rearrange itself. I hoped goofy Landon would simply shrug and walk away.
D. K. Wall:I even entertained the possibility that Landon might flee in terror and hide behind me. This was not entirely implausible.
D. K. Wall:Landon maintains a long and distinguished list of objects he finds deeply alarming. The robo vac that fights its losing battle against those hairy tumbleweeds. A plastic bag caught in a branch fluttering in the breeze. An errant cricket that once landed on his nose, triggering what can only be described as a full Siberian meltdown.
D. K. Wall:Alas, neither I nor the rabbit was that lucky. Somewhere deep in the furtherest recesses of Landon's fluffy brain, ancient whispers from his wolfish ancestors stirred to life and commanded him to follow long buried instincts.
D. K. Wall:In a single chomp, it was over. Well, for the rabbit anyway.
D. K. Wall:For me, a brand new problem had arisen. There I stood in the backyard, barefoot, pajama clad, armed with nothing but a ridiculously bright flashlight, while Landon, much to his own astonishment, clasped his tasty prize high in the air like a trophy.
D. K. Wall:Long experience with Typhoon had taught me there could be digestive repercussions to a sudden unauthorized addition to the diet. I needed to persuade Landon to relinquish his prize. I probably am not telling you anything you haven't already guessed when I report that my firm command, Landon, drop it, was entirely ineffective.
D. K. Wall:What followed was an extraordinary chase. Round and round the yard, me shouting commands with increasing desperation, Landon woo wooing his passionate counterargument that he caught it, so he got to keep it.
D. K. Wall:He juked left. I lunged after him, but he twirled right. In my clumsiness, I stumbled and executed what can only be described as a barefoot pirouette across the wet grass. Not graceful. Not intentional. But somehow I stayed upright. My flashlight beam swung wildly through the darkness like a lighthouse operated by a lunatic.
D. K. Wall:Landon, it turns out, had been paying far closer attention to Typhoon's footwork over the years than I ever gave him credit for. He employed evasive maneuvers I didn't know he possessed, tight spirals around the patio furniture, a breathtaking figure eight through the shrubbery, and one spectacular leap over a rose bush that would have earned respectable scores from Olympic judges.
D. K. Wall:Meanwhile, I crashed through those same obstacles like a shrieking wrecking ball, collecting bruises I wouldn't discover until later in the day.
D. K. Wall:Between laps, I cycled through every command in my arsenal. Drop it. Nothing. Leave it. Not a chance. Trade. He actually glanced at me for that one, the rabbit dangling from his jaws like a grotesque cigar, before deciding that, no, a treat, no matter how tasty, was not a fair exchange for the greatest achievement of his life.
D. K. Wall:I tried reasoning with him. I tried bribery. At one point, I'm fairly certain I tried diplomacy, attempting to negotiate terms of surrender in a calm, measured tone that fooled absolutely no one, least of all, Landon. He responded with an eloquent, though muffled, woo woo that I am confident translated to something deeply uncomplimentary about my negotiation skills.
D. K. Wall:After what felt like an eternity, but was probably only a few laps, the tide turned. Not through any brilliant strategy on my part, but because Landon made the rookie mistake of pausing to gloat.
D. K. Wall:He stopped, tail held high, trophy aloft, and gave me a look that said, are you not entertained? That half second of showboating was all I needed. I closed the gap, dropped to my knees, and made the grab.
D. K. Wall:He resisted. I insisted. There was a brief, undignified tug of war that I prefer not to describe. And then, at last, I won. I ushered Landon inside, still protesting, still cataloging my many failings as a fun ruiner, and returned to clean up the grisly crime scene.
D. K. Wall:Then and only then did it dawn on me that I had likely just delivered quite the spectacle for my neighbors peering out their windows, which they likely had done to figure out the cause of such a wild commotion.
D. K. Wall:I can only imagine the tale spreading through the neighborhood about that crazy writer fellow and his bizarre predawn antics, hollering and sprinting around his yard while normal, sensible people slept or at least tried to. And here they thought I was strange just for having conversations with my dogs.
D. K. Wall:Somewhere, I suspect, His Royal Highness Little Prince Typhoon Phooey is howling with laughter. He always did enjoy a good show, especially at my expense.