Beginning Week Five

It has been four weeks and two days since the leg surgery. The stitches have been removed and the cone has been off for two weeks, The surgical wound is fully healed. Her leg is better now than it was that fateful day back in March when she pulled up lame in front of her vet's office. She walks without a limp, and is ready to run and play like the old days. Unfortunately, we still have two months of "no running, no jumping" to go.

I have been surprised, however. by how well she has adapted to this new new normal - new normals have been coming at us with increasing rapidity. Just this morning, when I was getting ready to turn her back toward home, she turned herself and trotted happily in that direction.

I reckon that the old days of two and a half hour walks are gone forever. Maybe it's harder on me than it is on her. I like to walk. I also need the exercise. I'm turning into a big old toad.

Another New Normal

Post-surgery Grace has taken some getting used to. No running, no jumping, short walks on a short leash, anti inflammatory and antibiotic meds twice a day, pain meds three times a day. Ice packs on the leg followed by physical therapy. She, of course, is milking it for all it's worth. She sleeps on my side of the bed while I sleep in the recliner. She has refused to eat unless she is hand fed. She whines for no apparent reason while we rack our brains trying to figure out what she wants. Carmen cannot stand the whining, so Grace pours it on when she is home. Pretty good thinking for 'just a dumb animal.'

She is walking pretty well. She limps only slightly, and resists turning back after only three or four minutes, which used to be earlier than her first wee-wee. We have discovered, in fact, that she CAN get all of her business done in less than ten minutes. Who knew?

She is whining now, and I have to stop this foolish waste of time and get back to what matters: doing the bidding of Princess Grace.

A Lame Story

A couple of months ago, we were walking our usual southbound walk, when Grace suddenly stopped with her left hind leg hoisted up. She began biting the bottom of her foot, which usually means that she has stepped on a sand spur or a thorn. I tried to feel her paw, but she pulled it away and growled at me.

We were directly across the highway from our vet's office at that time, so I waited for a big gap in traffic both ways, then helped her hobble on over. She is always happy to go in there - there are dogs and cats and animal loving humans a-plenty in there. I explained the situation to the person at the desk, and she told me to have a seat in the waiting room, which was full of dogs and cats and animal loving humans. Grace was happily soaking up the attention until we got called into the examining room. She got up and trotted to the exit door, effectively saying, "Look! See? My leg feels much better, let's get on with our walk." No such luck. We dragged her into the exam room. Dr. Davis could feel the arthritis in both of her hind legs. Grace growled at her as well. Doc gave Grace a shot and gave me some anti-inflammatory chewables to get us through the next few weeks.

She seemed better at first, but as time wore on the pain got to be more than the medicine could handle. Carmen and I took her in for the follow-up appointment. We got pain meds, one of which I have been taking for my arthritis for about six years, and a different anti-inflammatory. The vet took some x-rays, and recommended a surgeon. We got an appointment with the surgeon so he could examine her and look at the x-rays.

That was Tuesday. I took her to the veterinary specialists office, where a masked and gloved tech came out to get her. She tried to climb into my lap to avoid capture, but the tech prevailed and dragged her inside. About an hour later they brought her back out. She trotted to the car and hopped in. "See? I'm feeling much better. No surgery needed. Sorry for wasting your time."

This morning we took her back there for the surgery, to repair her torn ACL in her left leg. It was hard to let her go in there for an overnight stay. But this time she hopped on out of the car and trotted happily along with the tech, without a look back. Go figure.

Carmen has called to check on her several times. The surgery went well, no untoward circumstances, she is still sleeping peacefully as of this afternoon. I pick her up tomorrow, cone and all, and begin twelve weeks of keeping her calm and subdued, which will be at least as hard on me as on her.

Intolerable Situation

Our beloved bassador is beloved by many many humans and nearly as many dogs (and even a few cats!) So what could be worse for all concerned than social distancing? Grace doesn't have a clue why I am suddenly pulling her - nay, dragging her - away from all of her friends. Her friends are equally distraught, even those who understand why. Grace is such a sweet, lovable dog, the whole world wants to love on her, and now they can't. Some humans have even argued with me about it. Luckily, I am very good at just saying no to mammals of all stripes. If I have to, I play the "my wife works in a hospital" card - leaving out the part about her working from home these last three weeks.

I don't know whether Grace has figured something out or whether it's just a coincidence, but the past couple of days she has intentionally cut her walks far shorter than normal. She does her essential business then leads me straight home. Is it because it's just no fun any more?

I reckon we'll never know.

Dog-o-paws

I'm sitting here on the porch with my bassador watching and listening to the rain. Twenty minutes have passed, and Grace has shown no interest in going for our morning walk.

Grace was born and raised for three years in a place where, if you didn't go out in the rain, you didn't go out for days at a time. Four and a half years later, she sits on the porch rather than walk.

I suppose she is showing her age. If the old seven to one ratio is applied, she would be fifty three now. We left Meadville when she was twenty one. I guess I was more hesitant to walk in the rain at 53 than I was at twenty one also.

But now she is ready to go. Signing off!

The Loop

Walking has always enabled my best thinking. The longer the walk, the deeper the thoughts. This morning we walked the loop. It's not the longest walk we've done, but it's in the top five. We've walked it maybe six times during the year we've lived in Jacksonville.

Standard walks go either north or south on San Jose boulevard, with twists and turns into businesses, neighborhoods, apartment complexes and/or down connecting roads. Then we come back home along pretty much the same general route. 

The loop goes south on San Jose, cuts west and north through businesses and neighborhoods to Beauclerc Road, then east to San Jose where we turn southward once more toward home - unless we go the counter-clockwise direction. 

Yesterday was my second session with my mental health professional. One of the coping strategies she recommended was to walk the dawg. (Gee, I wish I'd thought of that!) And as if she knew the plan, Grace led me all the way around the loop. 6756 steps, 2 hours and 25 minutes. I told her everything that was rattling around in my headbone. Grace is a very good listener.

The Quacker Factory

A few months ago we expanded our wanderings to the world on the other side of San Jose Boulevard. First we went under the road where it crosses Goodby's Creek. Soon, however, we discovered that even at the busiest times of the morning rush, there are occasional huge gaps in the traffic in both directions at the same time.

One of the most intriguing places we tour over there is the Beauclerc Bay apartment complex. It fronts on the creek, so I imagine it was a prestigious address (for an apartment complex) at one time, probably many decades ago. Now it is dilapidated, and the parts that are still structurally sound enough are home to low income people of all stripes. There are a few dogs there, and many cats of questionable domesticity. But the primary residents are ducks. All along the creek one will always find a plethora of ducks, but the rest of the complex is lousy with them as well. We never know where we might surprise a mama duck off of her nest of eggs. Ducklings ranging from newly hatched to nearly full grown follow their mamas across parking lots, through courtyards or into the water to escape the threat of our zealous bassador. I even watched a duck nonchalantly climb an outside staircase once - a jaw-dropping experience I'll never forget.

Unfortunately, here in the depth of Florida summer, full tours of the complex are out of the question. We wander in there once or twice a week, but in order to get home before the day gets too hot, we have to turn around way too soon and wander out again. We may not see any humans or dogs, but ducks we shall always have with us

A New Game

So here we are in a whole new location, with a wide open world to explore. At first Grace just led me around Solano Grove, our condo community, but I knew it wouldn't contain her for long. We just couldn't squeeze a two-hour walk out of this little place. First we tried going north on San Jose Boulevard, across Goodby's Creek, past the Hooters with its eight - count 'em - eight boat docking slips. We wandered into a couple of neighborhoods along San Jose, but nothing really clicked. We tried going south on San Jose, and that was much better. There were ponds and ditches and paths through wooded areas, as well as populated businesses where people could fawn over her.

A couple of days ago, we tried going north again, but very soon we turned left onto Beauclerc Road. This she liked because there were bushes and ditches and neighborhoods to explore on a long not-very-busy road that stretches for miles. I like it  because it has a sidewalk all the way along one side. Of course, she tries to drag me over to the sidewalk-free side, but I prevail (mostly.)

This morning we did the Beauclerc Road thing. She pooped in somebody's yard and I picked it up as usual. There were trash cans out in front of the houses all along the road, but they were empty so I didn't put my bag in them. I carried that bag for a long while, waiting for that golden opportunity to get rid of it. Then, up ahead I heard and then saw a garbage truck working its way along a side street, headed for Beauclerc Road. I quickened our pace, hoping to make it to the last undumped can  in time. I didn't. But I saw that the truck was mechanically picking up the cans and dumping them into a large opening just a few feet higher than my head. As the truck went by, I flung my bag into the opening. "Two points!" the driver called out, and gave me a thumbs up.

On we went down the road. Just a few minutes later, Grace pooped again. Wouldn't you know it, the same truck was coming out of the next neighborhood as we got there. I shot, I scored. "You should be playing basketball," said the driver. Yeah, right.

Early Christmas

Poop bags come in a huge variety of  sizes, shapes, weights of plastic and colors. The bigger and heavier weight ones are less apt to be parties to unpleasant direct physical encounters with poop. Bright colors, while not appealing practically speaking, are nonetheless appealing to me aesthetically. I tend to buy packages with a variety of bright colors, and I take pains to rotate the colors as I use them Why? Well, let's just say that spending two hours following a dog around and picking up poop is largely uninteresting, and anything I can do to spice it up, I do. 

This morning, I was carrying a bright yellow bag, looking for a place to deposit it. After about ten minutes, we were finally approaching a dumpster. It was the kind with the sliding door on the side, AND the door was open. As soon as we were close enough, I flung it in. Coming closer, I could see inside. My bright yellow ball of poop was hanging in the branches of a discarded artificial Christmas tree. Now there's an idea I bet nobody has thought of yet for Christmas decor! 

An Unintended Act Of Kindness

Wow, it has been a long time since I've written anything for any of my four blogs. Possessing a mindset similar to Mister Ed's, however, I rarely write unless I have something to say.

Every now and then, my girl invents a new addition to our standard menu of walking activities. Her most recent started around two weeks ago. On our way to the railroad tracks west of home, fully anticipating crossing those tracks and touring the River Plantation condominium community, we halted abruptly in the grassy stretch between Bellevue Road and the tracks. Her nose was in the grass, her tail was wagging furiously, and she began pulling me around and around this way and that. I watched intently, and finally saw the object of her search. A small, mouse-sized grey something skittered away from her and disappeared into another clump of grass. Her face was up to her ears in grass, so she didn't see it. We kept on, around and around, this way and that. Several more tiny grey somethings appeared and disappeared. This went on for about twenty minutes before I had had enough. I dragged her away, and we went home.

The following week we were back there on several afternoons. The search expanded to other sections of grass, always along the tracks. Little grey things skittered, she still hasn't caught one. One evening this past week while we were dancing in the grass, a little grey thing broke cover and ran across a bare patch of ground. In a flash there was a red tailed hawk diving down from the nearby trees. It hit the ground for a brief moment, then flew back up to its perch with a little grey something in its beak. Before we were done, it dove down twice more, but I couldn't see anything in its grasp.

So Grace hasn't been able to catch those little devils, but she provided a nice little snack for another hunter. And she doesn't even know that she did.

Decisions Decisions

This post has been rattling around in my head for years now. It started with sticks. Years ago, Grace was way more interested in sticks than she is now. But not just any old stick, oh no! I entertained myself by attempting to predict which would be a good stick. Some she would barely glance at. Some she would sniff and even pick up. Some she would carry for a few steps, then drop. A few were good enough to trot merrily with for a while or plop down and gnaw for a spell. On a couple of occasions, she carried a spectacular stick all the way home. I still am unable to differentiate a completely uninteresting one from a spectacular one.

Then there were gloves. One morning, she happened upon an abandoned pair of leather work gloves. She sniffed them, then picked up the left one and carried it all the way home. The right one stayed where she'd found them for more than a week. She barely glanced at it.

Balls. Tennis balls are often ignored, sometimes picked up, sometimes carried ten meters or so, but always dropped and forgotten. Big bouncy balls can be ignored, picked up and shaken, or meticulously ripped to shreds. Baseballs -  ignored, carried, gnawed or buried.

So now we come to the main event. What constitutes an acceptable burial site? There are criteria that are fathomable to me. Soft ground is definitely preferred. Beside a tree, bush or building is very important. Beyond that, I'm mystified. I can pretty much always tell when she has something she aims to bury. She takes on a whole new attitude. She no longer is sniffing and scanning for the next adventure. She is purposefully seeking a burial site. She'll walk for many minutes, looking right, left and ahead. She'll  stop at a tree and paw the earth, then move on. Sometimes she sniffs and paws seven or eight perfectly good (to my obviously inferior senses) possibilities before she starts digging in earnest. Then she drops her prize in the hole, pokes it in with her nose, and very meticulously covers it with the earth she dug up and then some. After that, we're immediately back to business as usual. And out of maybe two hundred items she has buried, she has gone back to retrieve three. What was it about those three items that made them worth digging up? No idea.

I know that I'll never figure out any of these conundrums. She's keeping the mystery alive.

A Not - So - Lucrative Occupation

I just spent a half hour reading WWG  posts back to the beginning in 2013, so I could mention when last I posted about finding money during walks with Grace. It turns out that I have never written about this phenomenon, which is related to the great American pastime of flinging perfectly good stuff willy nilly onto the ground. I see pennies all the time, but only pick them up if they are pretty clean. Nickels, dimes and quarters are less frequent, and I usually pick them up. Dollar bills come along once in a while - one time I found four - fives are rare, I found a tenspot one time, and then there are twenties.

One of my favorite coincidences happened about two years ago. Grace and I were in Nashville Pet Products, with the usual fuss being made over her, and she led me over to her favorite treats. "Sorry," I said, "I don't have twenty dollars." So we left, went across the street to the field behind the Suntrust ATMs, and she led me directly to a twenty dollar bill lying in the dirt. "Okay already!" I said. We went back and bought treats.

Lightning doesn't strike twice in the same place, but I always look anyway, knowing as I do that there will never be another twenty in the field behind the Suntrust ATMs. Yesterday, lo and behold, there was! And this one isn't earmarked for anything!

Carmen reminded me when I told her about this windfall. The total of money I've found in five and a half years is up around 90 or 95 bucks now. That works out to about 17 bucks a year.

What Do You Suppose Is His Name - O

It has been over six months since my last post on this blog. Walking Grace is pretty routine these days, and pretty much everything that happens has happened before, numerous times. Recently, however, we have a acquired new best friend. In a large subdivision off of Old Harding Pike west of our condo, many dogs are out walking when we walk through.  One afternoon a month or so ago, we came across two dogs running around inside the fenced-in tennis court. Grace, of course, got all excited. I asked the two humans if Grace could play too, and of course they said yes. She entered gleefully and joined the fray, chasing and being chased all around the enclosure. One of the dogs, whose name I don't know, had to leave after a few minutes, but Bingo stayed for another ten or so. They had a grand time chasing and wrestling until it was time to go, as indicated by Grace going to the gate and looking at me. Bingo's mom, whose name I don't know, said she hoped Grace would come play again, because Bingo would be sleeping through the day now. Little did she know our dear bassador.

It wasn't more than a week later that Grace led me into Belle Pointe, not unusual, and by the most direct route to the tennis court. We went inside, and she sat down, looking expectantly in the direction Bingo had gone after their prior encounter. We were there, her sitting and I standing, for a good ten minutes, also not unusual, when suddenly she stood up, tail wagging madly. Bingo's mom had come out for a smoke. I waved, Grace wagged, and she went back inside for Bingo. They romped.

Since then, we have bypassed the tennis courts and gone straight to Bingo's door at least once a week, accelerating to three and four times a week of late. One morning she lay on Bingo's front porch for twenty minutes before I convinced her to give it up. Since then, at Carmen's urging, we no longer camp out on the porch, but we have had pretty good luck finding Mom out smoking. This morning her son came out to go to work just as we  arrived.

It has been two and a quarter years since Grace last had a best friend. It's nice to see her so happy.

Ah, There's Good News Tonight

Those of y'all who know me, either in person or from reading my stuff - or both - know that one of the things that drive me batshit crazy about humans is that they fling trash everywhere. Not all of them (us), to be sure, but enough for there to be visible trash almost anywhere you look. Hell, I did a brilliant slide show on the subject in Communications class in 1970. It's the biggest one of my numerous pet peeves. Yes, even bigger than the bastardization of the apostrophe!

So this afternoon I was walking my girl home from Red Caboose Park when I saw at a great distance a battery powered kiddie car coming along the sidewalk, with a little kiddo driving and an adult human walking behind. Then I saw the little one climb out of the car, run a little ways across the field, then run back to the car and drive a short distance. This process was repeated several times, and as we got closer, I could see that the little girl was running to pick up pieces of trash, and depositing them in the garbage bag carried by her dad! When we got close enough, I said "Wow, that's really nice!" He said "She has to earn her trip to the park." I'm guessing she will grow up to be one of us humans who do not fling trash everywhere.

I just love a juicy bit of good news, don't you?

"Jimmy's In The Well!!"

I bought a new cell phone this afternoon. I bought a new cell phone because my previous cell phone went into Flat Creek. My previous cell phone went into Flat Creek while I was struggling to pull myself out of the tangle of vines on the bank of Flat Creek.

There is a huge culvert that carries Flat Creek under the six lanes of Old Hickory Boulevard where it intersects with US 70 South. From the concrete top of the culvert to the actual creek measures about ten feet. And the water is pretty deep there, maybe two feet deep - a lot for Flat Creek.

So, Grace was leading me along, as usual, and she hopped up onto the concrete. I followed, but as I flung my weight forward to propel me to the top of the concrete, a vine caught my right foot. I overbalanced and fell head first on my back down the steep bank. The tangle of vines cushioned my fall, and thankfully, I was not hurt at all. But there I was, upside down on my back, tangled in vines, resting on...what? Dirt? Rock? Just vines? I couldn't tell. My feet and about half of my calves were above ground level, against the concrete top of the culvert - not enough to gain any leverage. Grace could have pulled me out, but she was too busy looking down at me quizzically and whining. And she grabbed some vines and pulled them, to no effect.

I grabbed hold of some vines and tried to pull myself up, with a little help from my feet. I inched upward little by little, but then the vines pulled out of the ground or broke, and I slid back down deeper than I had been. I stopped struggling for a few minutes, resting and thinking. I was seriously tempted to call 911 but I wasn't ready to give up yet. Meanwhile, Grace began barking a high-pitched panicky bark and looking around for someone to help me. I'm sure that if I had let go of the leash she would have gone for help. Unfortunately, she has no clue that vehicles are dangerous, and at that particular intersection, more dangerous than most. I held on, and she barked her "Timmy's in the well!" bark.

At last I decided that all I could do was try to turn over and push myself up to a position where I could grab hold of something - anything!- and claw my way out of there. Of course, if all that was holding me were vines, then into the drink I'd go. But hanging upside down was only marginally better than that. I flailed around, twisting my body until I had an arm in a position to push. I pulled my legs down, pushed up with my left arm and pulled on vines with my right, and miracle of miracles, I was able to stand myself up. I clawed my way up the bank, and had a grateful reunion with Grace. We had been separated for about fifteen minutes! Then I checked my pockets. Everything was still there except my cell phone.

I bought a new cell phone this afternoon.

Back To The Creek

Flat Creek has been a central character in the stories of our walks ever since we came to  Nashville. It flows (or not) through almost every journey we undertake. I inserted the parenthetic disclaimer in the preceding statement because, for three months during this past summer we had virtually no rain, and the creek was dry in many places. Strangely, to me anyway, it flowed normally in many other places. This told me that it flowed underground in the dry places - a phenomenon with which I was previously unfamiliar. Another consequence of the drought was the scarcity of water deep enough for bassador swimming during the blistering hot months of summer.

A couple of weeks ago, the rains finally came, bringing white water to Flat Creek. Grace was smart enough to stay out of the raging current, wading only in the calmer sections. Cooler weather accompanied the rains, so swimming wasn't a concern anyway.

This morning we were on the homeward stretch when she pulled me down to a section of the creek we've never explored before. The water was calm and deep there. I said, "Too bad it's so chilly today or you could go swimming." She looked at me, smiled and went swimming. Just when I think I've figured her out...

Patience Unbecoming

We're hoping that the blistering hot weather is behind us now for this year. Carmen likes to go walking with us when the weather is cool enough. Yesterday, our 30th anniversary, was just such a morning. After our coffee and exchange of hugs and memories, we determined that we would go to Edwin Warner dog park. Carmen still had to get ready, and Grace was getting anxious, so we decided that I would walk her to the entrance of our subdivision, and Carmen would drive down and meet us there.

We suited up and set out. I half expected to have to fight with Grace about turning left toward the entrance because she usually wants to go right toward wilder environs. My half-expectation was half right. She didn't want to go left. She didn't want to go right. She didn't want to go forward. She turned around and sat down, watching the door.  For about five minutes she sat there. Then, in a totally unprecedented move, she went to the door and asked to go in. We entered, and Grace led me through the house until she found Carmen. She barked her "snap it up" bark, then led me back outside where she sat down and waited, perfectly calm, until Carmen came out to join us.

There are those who argue that dogs can't reason. They should try walking with Grace.

Ring Of Bright Water

There is a creek that flows through Bellevue with access points nearly everywhere we walk. We have gone for a drink and/or a swim near Old Hickory Boulevard, and at a dozen more places between there and Sawyer Brown Road, nearly three miles west as the creek winds. We have seen common water snakes, snapping turtles, ducks, great blue herons and deer along what the map calls Flat Creek. This afternoon we hit the jackpot.

Grace led me down to Flat Creek at the access point nearest our condo. On these hot summer days, she likes to go for a swim, or at least a deep wade, at the beginning of the 90+ degree afternoon walk. She went right in, wading as deep as the shallow water would let her. I always look for snakes and snappers before I let her go in, and it was all clear. She was wading upstream, where the water gets deeper, so I looked ahead for anything dangerous. There was a major disturbance of the surface about thirty feet ahead, like I had never seen in this creek. A muskrat? A beaver? I pulled Grace onto dry land, and we walked over to the disturbed place. I didn't expect to see whatever it was. I figured it had gone into its hidey hole under the bank or somewhere out of sight. I certainly didn't expect to see one of my all-time favorite mammals, a river otter, cavorting in the water. There it was, chasing the little fish and otherwise frolicking underwater! We watched, mesmerized. The otter came up for air, saw us, and hissed at us, baring its sharp pointed teeth, then went back down, making its way further upstream and away from us. We watched it out of sight around the bend.

Great. Now I'll be disappointed every time we go to an otter-free creek access.  

Deer Deer

It's been a long time since I've been moved to write a WWG post. This morning's walk was truly moving.

Our little corner of Nashville, Bellevue, is a hodgepodge of retail stores, restaurants, churches, single family homes, condominium communities and apartment complexes, with wild places (rapidly shrinking) in between. The rabbit population is dense, so much so that Grace has now caught twelve in her first year here. This also means that coyotes prowl the neighborhoods at night. I have seen one coyote, and Grace has detected them on several occasions. When she does, she tells the whole world about it.

This morning we were walking one of our habitual routes, crossing the drainage ditch between Old Harding Pike and Wynbrook condominium community, when we saw what we initially thought were two greyhounds bounding through the landscaping. We stopped to watch, and were confronted with two deer headed for the woods. They stopped about thirty feet from us and returned our stares. Grace lunged to the end of her four foot leash, and one deer bounded away. The other stayed, continuing to stare. She took a couple of steps closer. We also stepped closer. She took another step in our direction, still staring. Grace lunged again, and the deer took off , following her friend into the woods. We were about twenty feet apart before she ran off. It was our closest encounter ever with a deer.

I did not want a dog. I knew that I would be the one doing the feeding and the walking. I was right, of course, but the walking has changed my life in many ways, many of them welcome. Damn it!

Fudd's Law: A Moral Dilemma

Any fan of Warner Brothers cartoons knows that Fudd's First Law is "Kill da wabbit, kill da wabbit, kill da wabbit..." My beloved bassador is a strict follower of this doctrine. She caught three wabbits in Pennsylvania (two dead, one wounded) and up until this morning she had the same score in Tennessee. If you count near misses, the count goes much higher. She has a two hundred pound anchor at the other end of her leash, so most of her encounters are misses, by a little or a lot.

This morning, about 45 minutes into our 1 1/2 hour walk, we encountered a rabbit lying in an unnatural position on Bellevue Road, up against the curb. Its left hind leg was bloody and obviously broken. Almost certainly, it had been hit by a car. It cowered and shivered and had to be in a lot of pain. At first, I restrained my wabbit killer while I weighed the options. As a former volunteer for Tamarack Wildlife Rehabilitation and Education Center, my first thought was to try to capture it and figure out where I could take it and how I could get it there. Or I could take it to a vet and see what they can do. Or I could put it out of its misery. "How would I go about that?" I asked myself, as Grace strained and whined at the other end of the leash. Hmmm. We ran toward the bunny, and it marshaled its strength enough to take off running. But even with a two hundred pound anchor, Grace was able to catch it, shake it, kill it.

She carried it proudly for a few hundred yards, long enough for three other dogs to see that she had a fresh kill in her mouth, then she laid it down by a tree and we continued on our merry way. Was it my imagination, or did Grace have an extra spring in her step the rest of the way home?