THE INVISIBLE FENCE

A bridge too far:  the boundary of the invisible fence

In early November we had a dog fence installed in a rough circle around the part of our property that we consider lawn, as opposed to meadow.  “Lawn” in this case doesn’t include the pond or the area across from the pond, the section that descends to the sugarhouse, or our road that leads out to the main road, Hallock Road.  This fence is, literally, invisible, and consists of an electrified looped wire trenched a few inches below ground.  The only visual signs it exists are the small white flag markers set at five or six foot intervals.  This is our dog fence. 

Skyler at five months, looking almost grownup

Brittanys Daisy and Skyler, are very scent-oriented.   As you would expect from a dog originally bred from English Setters and another hunting spaniel.  Given complete freedom to roam, Skyler and Daisy would likely race off into the field and into the woods (or, far scarier, the road).   All that would be needed would be the scent of an animal track or even more enticing, a skunk or turkey, say, poking around seductively in the field.  They both love the tall grass and would disappear into it in seconds.  Keep in mind that five month old dogs have pretty poor judgment.  It was either have an invisible fence or a visible fence, or have the dogs on a leash every time they’re outside. 

Lesley and I spent a few hours a day for about two weeks working with both Daisy and Skyler to train them so they would learn that this “fence” marks a boundary they must not cross under any circumstances.  (To test them, we provided some circumstances:  tossing treats beyond the boundary, one of us walking beyond it, and dragging a scented towel on a fishing line.  They passed.)  Each dog wears a special collar that picks up transmission from the underground wire.  When a dog gets within a few feet of the wire the collar transmits a high pitched beeping sound­–a sound that might be simply annoying to people, like an electronic device signaling low battery power, but unpleasant to a dog.  If they go a step closer to the wire, they will get a small electric shock.  When we started out Skyler became wary after a few beeping incidents and seemed really intimidated.  Daisy was bold, enough so that it took an actual shock to get her to turn back.  Then the roles reversed, and Daisy became fearful while Skyler confidently ran near–but not too near–the edge.  

Caught in a brief (hence slightly blurred) pause in play, Skyler at top, Daisy in the forefront.  

It’s several weeks later now, and both dogs have made adjustments. As it is, they have plenty of space to tear around without pushing their luck.  Each dog, though, at separate intervals, has been onto something interesting enough that she/he adopted a crouch position and crept slowly, slowly forward toward the boundary, hoping if they were stealthy enough it would let them through somehow.   No dice.  Each time they quickly ran back to safe territory.

Skyler and Daisy lapping up bird seed or, maybe, bird poop

We have adjusted, too, to having a bit more freedom.  The pups now need supervision at a distance.  We are no longer tied to the other end of the leash.

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A gloomy afternoon in the snowless (so far) Banana Belt (our part of the Champlain Valley)

We are onto another kind of tether right now.  As a follow-up to Ken’s September operation, and as a precaution (with a T2 tumor, no matter how small or how completely it has been removed, there remains the possibility of an escaped cancer cell, the consequences of which could be very unpleasant), his doctor prescribed five weeks of low-level radiation and low-level chemo.  With only minor, if any, side effects, they said encouragingly. 

Every weekday, Monday through Friday, Ken and I (I’m expected to accompany him) make the drive to Fletcher-Allen in Burlington for Ken’s treatment.  Mid-week, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, the visits are short, only about 20 minutes to half an hour in all, compared with the drive which takes about 45 minutes.  Radiation is quick, the waiting room is comfortable and serene, with decent magazines and jigsaw puzzles. The receptionists remember you.  Mondays and Fridays the visits are longer.   On the longer visits we visit chemotherapy in addition to radiation. Ken gets a pump on Monday that he wears through the week until it is removed on Friday.   (Daisy, whom we are dog-sitting from 11-4 while Lesley works, and Skyler spend those days in doggie daycare where they frolic themselves to exhaustion from what we hear.) 

The chemo waiting room is different.  It’s always crowded and there is barely enough seating.  The room is too small.  There is often a line of people waiting to check in.  The few magazines are dog-eared and out of date.  Hardly anyone bothers looking at them.  More than the radiation waiting room, it is a door into sickness.  When I sit there waiting with Ken I feel a stab of pain if I see young children come in.  Babies, even.  What are they doing here?  Is it possible that they have cancer?  Or does a parent?  Some enter in wheelchairs, others wearily, or matter-of-factly, like they’ve been here many times before.  Some wear bandanas instead of hair.  Others look too young to be here.  It should be for the old.  We have crossed a boundary into a world that feels set apart.  Not real.  Not part of life outside.  It’s a feeling I often get in hospitals.   But there’s nothing unreal about what goes on in these waiting rooms, in these hospitals.  One might say that what happens there is more grounded in our all too real humanity than the thin veneer of our own “real” daily lives.  Yet every time we leave the hospital, especially on Fridays, we feel free again.  Happy to return to the busyness, the lassitude, the joy, the tedium, the tumult of our daily lives.