Nope, this is not a P.S. to last month’s post on those low-life service dog scammers. This is about a real comfort dog. He’s got no official vest, and he doesn’t have special dispensation to hang with me at bars or travel with me on planes. But man, does this dog ever give me comfort!
Last weekend Carol opted to stay back in WePo for reasons including, but not limited to, the spectre of driving up to Vermont and into the teeth of Winter Storm Riley, aka the “Bomb Cyclone.” Even with her absence, though, I would not be
traveling alone: Kemba, my faithful sidekick, would be with me. Of course. For my entire three-hours-plus Thursday night drive, I had my left hand on the wheel and my right hand massaging the neck of this super-smooth ball of fox-red fur, curled up and snoozing in the shotgun seat. Kemba had just been in for a bath earlier in the week; hence, his fur was the softest of any dog east of the Mississippi. You want to know comfort? That’s
comfort.
The blizzard started in earnest late Thursday night. The game plan for Friday: Kemba and I would hike in the steadily piling snow through the woods surrounding Hapgood Pond in Peru. Then, I’d drop him back at the house and go for a fresh pow afternoon, skiing solo at Bromley. Hitch #1: The parking area at Hapgood Pond hadn’t been plowed. So no hiking. Hitch #2: The Summit Chair wasn’t running at Bromley (winds too strong). So no skiing.
What does a man (and his dog) do when he can’t hike, and he can’t downhill?
Duh. Cross-country ski! One of Kemba’s favorite sports! He was probably wondering why I didn’t think of that in the first place. So I drove back home through the heightening storm, barely able to see through the windshield, swapped my downhill skis for x-c skis, and out we headed once more — passing Bromley (again), and the village of Peru (again), on our way to Landgrove.
In the Landgrove Inn parking area, I sprayed Kemba’s paws with Pam (Marcie P’s brilliant solution for keeping ice balls from forming between his toes), then headed for the office to pay. But the door was locked. No one home. The ever-present Carl was nowhere to be found. I was beginning to have some second thoughts. No one manning the office. Couldn’t make out a path from Landgrove Road down to the footbridge and the skiing area.
Nothing shoveled. No footprints. No humans in sight. No trails cleared. Nothing looked familiar, though I’ve skied there a zillion times. Virgin snow, piling higher by the minute. Zero visibility. Total whiteout. Good thing Kemba was there to lead me to the trailhead.
Okay, so this wasn’t heliskiing in Banff, or scaling Mt. Everest. But even cross-country skiing across the road from a country inn in Vermont can be spooky when you can’t see your skis, can’t see your gloves in front of your face, and can barely differentiate field from stream.
Obviously, on my way out, I had to make my own tracks. When
Kemba and I reached Hapgood Pond Road, I decided to forego our customary trek through the woods: I’d stay in the open field, reverse direction, and have the luxury of skiing back in the smooth tracks I’d just created. A good idea . . . until Kemba decided to take the lead, totally trashing my tracks with his romping and gallivanting. Oh, well.
Nonetheless, I was glad to have the company of my wingman, forever dashing out ahead of me to check things out . . . but always looking back, always waiting, always making sure I was all right. I really don’t know what he would have/could have done had I run into trouble. But it was a huge comfort just having him with me.
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