"Look," said the humans, "They know what we mean."
It always amazes them that we understand what they say. Of course we do, more than they realize. We watched them pack the car, leaving a disturbingly small place for us in the very back of it. The rest of the car was stuffed to the roof with the things they think they need to have fun, when we are all they really need. We figure out how to lie in the car, side by side, crosswise, so that we both fit into a space for one.
It takes a long time to get to Three Creeks. They roll the windows down as we climb higher, and we poke our noses outside and begin to catch the scents: pine, deer, squirrel. We are ever alert; we protect our humans, guide them, lead the way on the trails. We chase off the chipmunks, run in the creek and lake, get wet and sandy, roll in pine needles.
We see dogs approaching; our hackles stand straight up, and our humans snap on our leashes. We threaten and strain on the leashes, but can't reach the dogs or the other humans. At least they never get too close. It's our job to keep all others away.
Our humans eat a lot. We put our wet chins on their knees hoping they'll give us whatever they are eating. We never refuse an offering; to do so might mean less next time. We even eat bananas and grapes. Oranges, apples. But of course we prefer eggs, bacon, cheese. Large bones. Ice cream. They always share what they're eating. And they eat all the time, not twice a day like they feed us. We like breads the best, and cookies. One of us stole a whole loaf of hot, drooly bread once, but got caught and lost it. The smaller human got angry and took it away.
They're living in a small round den up here, but they won't let us in. We can see through parts of it, and we push on the soft covering with our noses. They open it up a little and we shove our heads in as far as we can; they hug us but complain about our hair, and they tell us that our toenails would poke holes in their floor.
We position ourselves at the two openings, on our pads that swelled up when they opened small orange sacks. They call them Thermarests and say we are lucky to have them. It is warmer and softer on the pads, but they aren't as big or soft as the ones we have in our big den at home.
We ran and ran today, jumped up rocks, ran to the edge of cliffs, followed our noses, chased sticks they threw out into the lake. They couldn't get them themselves. We always knew where our humans were; we kept them in sight. Mustn't let them get lost.
Then suddenly they said we had to jump into the back of the car again and go. Jump! Please! After the day we've had?? We hardly move once we're on the road again; too tired. We can still smell all the places we've been; it's stuck to our fur.
When we reach the large den it's dark, and we can hardly walk. We limp into the den and fall onto our pads to sleep. This morning we waited outside beside the car, but they locked us up in our pen and drove another car.
They tell us we'll get to go to Three Creeks again soon!
Rebecca Just Wagner, October, 2001
