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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
