It is April 22, 2008 near the Monocacy Aqueduct. I am on my sabbatical pilgrimage walking with my dog from D.C. to Pittsburgh while learning the gospel of John by heart. The story continues…
My husband Rick and I both knew that we had some work to do to get Chester ready for the etiquette of camping life and meeting strangers. In the early stages of preparing for the sabbatical, I started to grow concerned when, in reading through material, I noticed that some campgrounds had rules about dogs that misbehaved or barked too much; those dogs and their owners could be asked to leave. While the obedience classes at the pet store had been great in helping me teach Chester basic commands, and he had learned very quickly, he has kept a strong instinct about what he considers his territory. He will raise a clamor if someone steps into his space without his permission; this can be a problem when camping, especially if campsites are close.
For Chester, the challenge of dog etiquette extends beyond the territory issue. He is the most affectionate dog I have ever owned and can charm the wits out of many people he knows if he includes them in his inner circle. Although his big brown eyes, perked ears and thumping tail melt me every time (and he knows it), his wariness of strangers, perhaps an imprint left from his pre-rescued past, has never left him. He only grudgingly tolerates the veterinarian. He is particularly untrusting around men with hats. As his owner, I can never predict when he will nervously digress into fits of intimidating barking when a stranger tries to pet him. Many people who consider themselves dog friendly have discovered that Chester thinks otherwise.
Then there is the matter of other dogs. After being attacked by a neighborhood dog, Chester has always been on his guard when unfamiliar canines are approaching. He is definitely an “alpha” dog, and he will now make a show of yanking at the leash to reach others–usually just to sniff, sometimes to growl and bark, but always to insure that they know he has the upper hand should they try anything. He is not going to allow the neighbor incident to be repeated. The environment the canal trail is challenging for Chester because of the constant stream of strange dogs, “suspicious” people and ever changing territories, all of which send him into high alert.
Ironically, Chester’s instinctive cautiousness makes him great protection for me when we are walking through relatively isolated areas for much of these 335 miles. Nevertheless, I invested in the services of a dog trainer who came to our home for a number of months and gave assignments. With some hard work, Chester and I have made progress. Let’s face it, though: Chester will never be a dog who can just chill out. He is a product of his unique genetic beastliness: a territorial, herding, anxious but adoring protector. I, as his owner, must always be vigilant and consistent with him on the walk, and, for a day dreamer like me, that in itself is a challenge.
Yesterday evening and today have presented the best and the worst face of my companion-beast. I’ll start with today’s incident–the worst. We moved our trailer to a new campground today, one that has very particular dog rules, so we know we must be on our best behavior. Chester is by no means the only dog in the campground. Apparently a dog show is being held in the nearby town for a breed called Papillons (from the French word for butterfly). These are toy, spaniel-like dogs with ears that stick out like butterflies. They, too, like to defend their territory, and in spite of their small size, they bark defiantly, especially at big dogs like Chester.
I do not mean to insult any Papillon owners, but I am quite sure that Chester does not consider these creatures to be dogs. After all, they are smaller than most cats, their tails are as enticing as a squirrel’s, and their sharp little barks have an I-dare-you-to-come-and-investigate-me quality. This campground is over-run with them today. There are sometimes three, four, even five dogs in a camper. One campsite in a direct line of sight from the tree to which we have tied Chester has several Papillons outside in a playpen. There is also a Papillon in the large motor home parked immediately next to us; no more than twelve feet of tiny campsite yard separates us. Fortunately, their front door is on the opposite side from Chester’s tree. Meanwhile, we are trying to get situated in our new location and have settled him on a mat on the ground outside the camper door. The afternoon sun is shining, the mud is drying, and a chorus of yipping Papillons fills the air as we move things in and out. Chester observes it all.
I have just sprawled across the bed in the trailer to plan tomorrow’s walk when all hell breaks loose. I hear a few of Chester’s most frantic, hunting-call barks and then Rick’s bellowing: CHESTER. I know this is serious. By the time I make it outside, the chain that was around the tree lies broken on the ground, Chester is gone, and Rick has headed off into the campground, shouting his name.
Fortunately, Rick soon returns hanging on to our tyrant by the collar and summarizes the brief incident. The neighbor in the motor home came around to the back side (our side) to use his camper’s outdoor faucet and wash off his cute little Papillon. Chester, having decided that this was an invasion of his personal space by an alien creature, barked and lunged toward the little dog and broke his chain. The quick dog owner scooped up the little “pap” just in time as Rick yelled. Not to be daunted, Chester took off towards the next taunting target in the direction of the pack of Papillons in the playpen. Fortunately, our erring hunter was grabbed by Rick before he could get into too much trouble or be noticed by the campground managers.
We have abandoned any hope of a quiet afternoon as we climb into the truck and head off into town. At a pet store we find exactly what we need: a heavy duty chain called “The Beast.” Back at the campsite again, as the sun sinks low and the light dims, we rig up this new contraption around the tree. There is no way that Chester can break loose now, but we are not taking any chances. Mostly we have confined Chester indoors and only dare walk him under the cover of darkness on a dirt road that leads up a hill away from the camp. It is our way of enforcing a truce in our beastly Chester’s war with the Papillons.
Yet as I sit here writing at the end of this day’s battle, I must remember my dog’s gallant effort of the evening before….
To be continued.
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