HARRY: NO SMALL AMOUNT...

THE BRIEF MEMOIR OF A

A WEST-HIGHLAND TERRIER

Harry, b. May 1998, d. September, 2014

 

Harry, in his prime, relentlessly cute

I couldn’t make the call to the vet.  Ken had to do it for me.  But I knew it was time.  One morning last week, as has been the case for the past month or so, Harry was oblivious to the sounds of our getting out bed and washing up, and had to be picked up out of his doggie bed in our bathroom where he has been sleeping for the night.  I could feel that part of him was very wet, and then I saw his nearby water dish had spilled across the floor.  He must have fumbled his way to the dish, upset it, and then, in his usual confusion, sat down in the puddle.  I carried him downstairs and then outside to do his morning thing.   Outside, he simply stood where he’d been put, looking confused.

As Harry slept more and more we had to make an effort to get him outdoors

We had set a date for our vet to come to the house, a day when Harry will be no more.  When Harry will be put to sleep.  (There, I've said it.)  Then we postponed it.  Until today.  It seemed as if Harry just fell apart this morning.  Among other issues that I will not describe here, he fell down while eating, never finishing his breakfast.

The bit of white is Harry.  He would walk a little, then just collapse where he was.

*

After his sixteenth year (the year rounded out some time in May), and even months earlier, Harry began sleeping the better part of the day.  Most of the day.  In late spring and early summer he was sleeping more and more.  He took to sleeping in our downstairs bathroom, very inconveniently draping himself around the sink or the toilet bowl.  Whether his intent was to hide himself away, or be in a space where he wouldn’t be bothered, we really had no idea.  Yet sometimes he would emerge and some of his former liveliness would return.  At least for a short time. 

He always had what we liked to think was a philosophical bent.  Even when he was quite young he would appear to be content sitting and looking at some far-away vista.  When we first moved here he seemed to admire the Adirondacks nearly as much as we did.  I remember when we stayed with him some years ago on the twelfth floor of a high-rise hotel that had floor to ceiling windows overlooking the city of Charleston, South Carolina, he sat looking out on the broad scene, seemingly riveted.  Once or twice he barked at something unseen by us.

In Maine.  Harry liked to wade, but preferred not to swim.

A seasoned traveler.  We took him everywhere.  (Well, almost.)  Hours spent in the car demanded he remain vertical and keep his eyes on the road every bit as sharply as the driver’s.  On long trips, after many hours of this, he’d start blinking, struggle to keep upright, and fight back against the urge to sleep, his eyes unwaveringly aimed straight ahead.  If we tried to block his view he’d move his head––he had to see the road.  When we drove under bridges he would duck.  He developed a motel routine:  stroll in, check the layout, await placement of the food dish, sit, wait, sleep. (Plenty tired after all that driving.)  He was, as far as we know, a well-mannered guest.  Although we often wondered:  What did he do when we left?  Did he bark?  We would never know for sure.   

Just chilling

In his sixteen-plus years Harry visited Maine, Colorado, New Mexico, Arkansas, Florida, Georgia, Mississippi, the above-mentioned South Carolina, and all the states in between.  The ocean was as interesting to wade in as a lake, a suburban street nearly as gemutlilch as a field.  Like Thoreau, he traveled widely in Concord, Massachusetts.  And, of course, Lexington he knew like his own backyard.  Which it was, for twelve years.  He hiked in the White Mountains of New Hampshire and conquered at least two of the 4,000 footers as well as many of the lesser peaks.  He needed a couple of boosts up trails like the Caps Ridge Trails to summit Jefferson.  He made it up to the top of Mount Lafayette unaided, but not too happily as I recall, since the day was warmer than he liked.  He preferred cold.  More than once he strolled into icy waters in winter as small icebergs floated around him.  He climbed Buck Mountain behind our house many times, even in years before we moved here.  In his earliest days he sometimes accompanied us camping.  It wasn’t the best arrangement, however, as he hadn’t yet gotten the knack of hanging around the camp and tended to wander. 

Ken carried Harry in his backpack for most of the hike.

One wandering while we were camping was not a lot of fun.  For us, that is.  Our tent was in the Okefenokee Swamp, a National Wildlife Refuge bordering Florida and Georgia, where you will find plenty of alligators, snakes and whatever else is likely to inhabit one of the largest protected wetlands in the South.  We were nearly the only campers.  Dogs are not permitted there (alligators! snakes!), so during the day we had to leave him in the car.  (It was late November, days were chilly and he was in the shade besides.)  In the night we were all zipped snugly into our tent.  Ken cooked bacon one night and left the bacon pan outside the tent atop the fire pit.  In the middle of the night something came to lick up the bacon fat.  We could hear it chewing.  So, of course, could Harry, who pushed up the zipper with his nose, and bolted out of the tent in no time flat, vanishing into total blackness in pursuit of––we didn’t want to think about what.  Haaarry!  Haaarry!   No response.  That, we thought to ourselves, is the end of Harry.  What with alligators, snakes and goodness-knows-what-all, we knew he couldn’t survive for long. We searched, we called, we waited.  Suddenly, my flashlight caught a pair of eyes.  Harry, out of nowhere, was transfixed in the beam of light like the proverbial deer in the headlights.  I kept the light in his eyes while Ken grabbed him from behind.  We took him back into the tent and Ken attached a leash to Harry at one end and to his wrist at the other.  No more taking chances.  This was not the only time he bolted, but it was the scariest.

Crawling back after an unexpected dip in the ocean.  He was game.

Harry, after a particularly enjoyable roll in the mud and grass

Would Harry actually have caught whatever he was after that night?  We doubt it.  (More likely it would have caught him.)  The prey would have had to be a real patsy.  We remember a time we were walking in the Concord woods when he became fascinated at discovering a hole beneath a tree.  After some serious sniffing and a few minutes of furious digging a mouse emerged directly under his nose, ran between his feet and escaped to freedom.  Harry seemed more surprised than frustrated.   His hunting skills never improved. 

He preferred the cold and especially loved rolling in snow.

Mark, our vet, came to the house this afternoon along with Ashlie, one of his vet technicians as well as our dog and house sitter to bring Harry to his end.   It was gently and lovingly done.

There will never be another Harry.  Every dog, I suppose, is unique.  Each in his own way.  Harry was unlike Skyler, our Brittany, in countless ways:  different in size (obviously), shedding ability (Westies never shed!), in the amount of petting and/or cuddling he would stand for (a measured amount for Harry).  Moderation in all things, could have been his motto.   A description of Westies that we read before we got Harry said Westies have “no small amount of self-esteem.”  This was evident in his apparent all-around confident bearing.  He was intimidated by very little.  He was tough.  He never complained when ticks were pulled from his skin, or when he was combed and groomed, or when he was taken to the vet. 

He was, it must be said, his own dog.  

“The West Highland Terrier possesses no small amount of self-esteem.” 

“Said to be ‘all terrier,’ this breed possesses a large amount of spunk, determination and devotion stuffed into a compact little body.” –– American Kennel Club

A IS FOR AUGUST, O IS FOR OWL

Skyler does his rounds early one August morning

The setting sun has already begun its arc back toward winter, as far away as that seems right now.  The grass grew as high as six or seven feet in places before it was mowed, which happened only a couple of days ago.  We liked having it high, as long as there were short-grass paths for walking.  It was interesting, too, looking for flattened areas of the grass where deer had clearly been moving or sleeping.  (Maybe now that the grass is short I will actually see the deer.)  Immediately after the mowing was done four or five turkey vultures soared over the field, occasionally landing to pick up a morsel – some small animal that didn’t survive the mowing.  I have no doubt many more shared that fate.  On an evening walk the same day Skyler found a dead mouse within minutes.  (He carried it for a few yards, then “buried” it beneath another pile of hay.)  A day later he found two more scraps of, well, flesh.  It doesn’t make for happy thoughts about the collateral damage when farmers mow early in the summer.  

Early morning fog lay everywhere

On our porch, the swallows, having long since fledged their early summer offspring, to our surprise are now busy feeding a second batch.  At least one of the nests has been as busy as ever, judging from the expanding poop pile underneath.  This time around it looks like there are another four or five chicks, reusing the same nest.  This winter we will leave the nest and find out whether it will be used a third time.  

One of the second set of chicks (there are at least three more behind).  Their heads are all mouth. 

On the subject of nests, we were also surprised by an enormous wasp nest that grew on the eaves of the screened porch without our noticing until a loud slamming of the screen door caused an uproar around the nest, a little too close for comfort.  Although paper wasps are beneficial (they eat flies and beetle larvae as well as nectar) we had to demolish the nest.

 

The wasp nest, in pieces, one larva on unrelated leaf (center)

Three differentiated tiers made up the interior

Author Chris Bohjalian who lives in Lincoln, VT wrote an article early this summer for the Burlington Free Press about Juliana Parker and her wildlife rehabilitation center here on Otter Creek Road after he brought her a young injured grackle he rescued.   In his words:

“The grackle was one of over 50 birds and small mammals that Julianna told me she was caring for the Sunday I brought the animal to her home. She is often assisted by her 16-year-old daughter, Sophia. When I asked, I learned that under the pair's wings were blue jays, pigeons, woodpeckers, tree swallows, ravens, and a slightly older grackle. They also mentioned chipmunks, cottontails, and even a baby weasel. Julianna has dedicated different rooms in her home to animals in different stages of recovery, but she also groups them in some cases by how likely they are to get along as they mend. The grackle I brought her wound up rehabbing with a fledgling blue jay that had been hit by a car and a slightly younger grackle that had been caught by a dog. ‘The three of them snuggle together. They perch together. They are a very sweet extended foster family,’ Juliana told me.”

The bird and small animal area of Juliana Parker's wildlife rehab center/home

I can think of many people who might not take the trouble to rehabilitate a grackle.  But Juliana is not one of them.  I can think of many more people who would not take the trouble to rehabilitate pigeons.  The fact that an easy dozen long-ago-discharged rehab patients return to sit on the roof of her home visually attests to her ministrations. 

Wildlife Rehab Center campers (Ben and Audrey in front row; Juliana standing in background, left)

Granddaughter Audrey who hopes to become a vet some day, has been volunteering for a while now  at Juliana’s center.*  Both Audrey and her brother Ben spent a week in a type of  “wildlife rehab camp” here.  The center is in fact a home, a people home, although if you lived there this fact might be debatable.   What could have been a living room is totally dedicated to animals.  There are cages from one end to the other sitting on a rug of straw, and birds fly to and fro from an enclosed porch area at one end.  Other parts of the house (the people part) are dotted with cages and cat carriers.  Cats and kittens are everywhere.

Juliana Parker is, I am told, the only wildlife person in VT licensed to care for pigeons as well

Outreach for Earth Stewardship director Craig Newman and a screech owl

I had never seen a screech owl.  But I had heard one.  Every night for a week or more in early summer for two or three years in a row a noise awoke me in the night.  It was an odd periodic monotonal trilling that went on for what seemed like hours.  I couldn’t get back to sleep for imagining what it was.  I thought it must be made by an insect.  On the other hand, it would have to be a really large insect.   But what?  

If you were a mouse, this small screech owl would be as fearsome as they come.  

A few years later, when we were living in Vermont, I researched owl sounds on the internet, having heard so many nighttime owl sounds.  It was only then that I realized it was the sound of a screech owl.  The morning I was at Juliana’s Craig Newman of Outreach for Earth Stewardship was her guest, coming to speak to the week’s campers.  He brought with him two owls, a barred owl and a screech owl.  Sadly, both hit by cars a few years ago and thereafter unable to be returned to the wild.  (The number of animal whose injuries were caused by cars hardly bears thinking about.)

Barred owl, up close, was hit by a car several years ago, and unable to return to the wild.

Those lethal claws (to rodents, anyway) 

Barred owls are common here and, because of their size, far easier to see than screech owls.  In fact I photographed one about a year ago on a nearby tree.  We often hear them calling from the edge of our field, “Who cooks for you?  Who, Who cooks for you?

And, once again, we have been visited by a great blue heron.

This heron spent nearly half an hour perched on this railing.

__________________

*Burlington Free Press, July 6, 2014

**Julianna Parker is one of 17 wildlife rehabilitators licensed by Vermont's Fish and Wildlife Department.

***For screech owl sounds, see the Cornell Lab of Ornithology site:         http://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/eastern_screech-owl/sounds

OH, MONHEGAN

Marshall Point lighthouse, Port Clyde, ME

On the ferry/mail boat to Monhegan, Ben and Audrey at the bow

The sea was rough at times, thunderstorms raked the area at night, and another day dawned bereft of wind accompanied by dense fog, this after three perfect days.  Not great conditions for sailing from Camden to Monhegan Island.  The Monhegan Island race was over and we anxiously awaited the arrival of the ‘Zube’ (short for the star Zubenelgenube) at Monhegan.   The race takes off every year at the Portland, Maine, Yacht Club.  Boats in the race used to sail from Portland, circle Monhegan which lies about 50 miles away, and return––an all day, all night effort.  Last year was the first year the course was altered to end at Camden.  Last year we met the Zube in Camden, but decided this year we would meet the boat well after the race (and deliver non-crew family Audrey, Ben and Carly) at Monhegan where the racing crew (daughters Leah and Lesley, husbands Cliff and Chris and grandsons Olin and Hans–Hans a sailing instructor this summer) would be mooring overnight. 

Seals, en route to Monhegan

The Zube arrives!  

A shout-out to the crew from the harbor dock

Ben, who had been swimming, is decked out by Audrey to greet the Zube crew.

It was the perfect place to be.  (But the chronology was such that the sunny days had turned into heavy sea fog by the time the Zube arrived.)

Monhegan harbor; the woman at right is searching for sea glass. 

The harbor

There’s something about an island.  It has an ambiance, a salty tang in this case, that you feel most strongly when your actual home is way back from the sea, behind several ranges of mountains–the mountains of Maine, the Whites of New Hampshire, and the Greens of Vermont.  And this island feels special.

Here’s how the current Visitors Guide describes it:

“Monhegan is a small rocky island ten miles from the nearest mainland and scarcely a square mile in area.  It is accessible only by boat and there are no cars or paved roads on the island.  Since long before the explorer John Smith visited it in 1614, it was known to Native Americans as a prime fishing area, and today its economy is still ruled by those who make their living from the sea, fishing and lobstering.  The year-round population has seldom exceeded 65 in recent times.”

On Fish 'Street' with Carly, Audrey and Ben

Reality is never quite so simple.

Although explorer John Smith is credited on a plaque attached to a rock hard by the schoolhouse, actual early visitors, as related on Wikipedia, were more plentiful.  Several European explorers stopped by:  one Martin Pring in 1603, Samuel de Champlain (think of the eponymous Lake Champlain) in 1604, a George Weymouth in 1605 and the aforementioned Captain John Smith a couple of years later in 1614. The island was a British fishing camp even before the settlement of the Plymouth Colony.  They harvested cod from the then-rich fishing grounds of the Gulf of Maine, and shipped the dried cod back to Europe.  Throughout the 1600’s and into the 1700’s the island was alternately settled and abandoned, but remained throughout a stopover destination for ships.  The original lighthouse was built in 1824, the bell rung during foggy conditions.  It was replaced after storm damage in 1850 by the present granite tower.

The lighthouse; summer repairs going on at left

As for cars, there are some vehicles.  A variety of mostly battered pickups meet the ferry and circulate on the few dirt roads in the village area to carry heavy loads–transporting everything from building materials to visitor baggage.   The only other transport is golf carts, used mostly by people who live on hilly terrain.  Everyone walks.

One of the local not-so-battered pickups, and a stack of lobster traps

About the fish.  Only Monhegan fishermen may set traps around the island (thanks to the Monhegan Lobster Conservation Zone).  The state legislature also granted the island a special winter lobstering season, the only winter season in the state of Maine. (This accounts for the many idle traps in what would otherwise be prime lobstering season.)   Nevertheless the economics of fishing are not what they were.  The ocean is warmer these days and the behavior of fish and lobster has been changing, most notably the timing of the lobster molt, and species are arriving at odd times of the year.  Some families no doubt have permanent homes on the mainland while keeping a foot in Monhegan to fish as well.

The year-round population, sadly, has decreased steadily over the years.  The 65 people count of  “recent times” (a number that was 75 in 2000) has dwindled to 40, according to a May 2014 article in Downeast magazine.  The schoolhouse teaches Kindergarten through eighth grade. High schoolers have to go to the mainland.  Around 2005 there were five students.   That number is now more like two or three.  “Monhegan Island remains a magical place for all who visit.  But is the island in danger of losing its soul?” asked the writer.

The schoolhouse, looking the same as it did 100 years ago

The “magic” is many things.  It is the intimidating 160-foot cliffs of Black Head and White Head that jut into the churning sea, views that have been painted many times. 

Black Head, Rockwell Kent, 1950

 

Black Head, Edward Hopper, 1916-1919

 Black Head, Frances Kornbluth, 1985

I'd like to have painted this:  the fog-dusted village, from lighthouse hill

Artists have been coming to Monhegan since the mid-1800’s.  This was the time of the popularity of the Hudson River School, one Monhegan artist (but from New York City) told me.  It was a time when the aesthetic was romantic landscapes inspired by view of the Catskills, the Adirondacks and the Hudson River Valley.  Many of these artists expanded this vision with visits to Monhegan.  Today art is everywhere on the island. Our hotel, the Monhegan House, is full of paintings.  Galleries and open studios abound.  Easels are set up all around. 

An artist at Port Clyde near the ferry dock.  Do you think he'll include the power lines?

On the trail to Lobster Cove, Monhegan, another artist

Carly does her artwork while Ken appears to lurk behind a tree.

But the “magic” is more than the ubiquity of art.  It is also in the absence of keys.  No room in our hotel has a key.  Doors are often left open.  Nor is there TV.  (But yes, there is internet.  And mobile phone service.)  And there is excellent food and plenty of very fresh fish.  After just a few days faces become familiar.  Many artists and others have been coming here every summer for many years and there are reunions everywhere.  It is virtually a non-smoking island.  (Smoking is prohibited anywhere outside of the town because of fire danger.)  What does Monhegan lack?  It has no bar, no club.  Hence, no one looking for a hot time either.  

On the porch, Monhegan House

The “magic” is everywhere in the landscape that inspired and inspires all manner of art.  The many miles of hiking trails–some 16 miles of trail on only 480 acres–neatly maintained with discreet signs (“Trail #7”) lead through deep forests of tall trees, through shrubs and small trees, to ferns, beach roses and rocky heights, each trail having a flavor of its own. On the backside of the island looking out on the open Atlantic the interface of sea and rock is daunting.  Kayakers are discouraged from circling the island because of the lack of landing sites and the possibility of sudden ocean swells unless they’re highly experienced in self-rescue.  To enter the surf almost anywhere but the harbor is risky, if not foolhardy.  Swimming is safe only at the harbor beach.

 The trails lead through many different environments.

 

One of the several winding woods trails

Wild strawberries

Audrey and Ben on the cliff trail

This trail leads to the Cathedral trail and the deepest forest, home of the fairy houses.
(To be saved for our next time on Monhegan.)

Not all remote islands are alike.  Matinicus, 22 miles out, has been known for years to be insular, and not welcoming to outsiders and tourists.  In the past visiting sailboats were even shot at, and the Maine State Police were under orders not to be on the island after dark.  Boating magazines listed the place as a "hostile harbor."  In 2009 one lobsterman shot another over fishing rights issues.  When the Zube crew landed here a couple of years ago they didn't feel welcome.  It advertises itself now on the internet as a place to visit.  But still...  As we boarded the ferry to leave Monhegan, one of the ferry hands joked, "All aboard!  Ferry to Matinicus!"  Ha, ha.