It's the first day of hunting season, gray and mild as luck would have it, and I can't take Chet Baker out for a morning run for several reasons. Stray bullets, for one. Boom. Boom boom. Alarmingly close. His ever-increasing apprehension at booms, for another. We went for a five-mile run yesterday afternoon, which was sort of a mistake. It was the evening before hunting season started, and there was a steady stream of speeding pickup trucks hurtling by us. They were all provisioning, getting settled in their digs, sighting in their rifles. Boom, boom, boom. Only four slowed down at all when they saw a woman with an unleashed dog on the road. As someone who spends between one and four hours a day, defenseless, out on these country roads, I don't understand people who won't slow down for pedestrians and animals. What in your life is so important that you can't do that?
But I digress. As night neared the booms got more and more frequent and Chet just lined out ahead of me. I kept calling to him to wait, and he would stop, one paw lifted, for a second or two, then he'd set off running again. He wanted to go HOME and HOME NOW. He was like a horse that smelled the barn, ears laid back, bit in his teeth. When we got to my car he boinged and boinged as if the door would magically open without me in there. Poor little buddy. The older he gets the less he appreciates booms.
This morning, while the fusillade rings, I have him buried deep in his bed with blankies piled over his ears. He's not going out. (But then we DID go out during the midday lull, and it was fine, only two distant shots. Except that he got very muddy and needed a hot bath upon our return.)