Creature Discomforts

by the regulations of the Reservation.
     
    At the bottom of the sign was yet another injunction. Considering the list of prohibitions, it hit me as a jarring afterthought:
     
    ENJOY YOUR VISIT!
     

Chapter Four
     
    THE RULES OF THE BEAMON RESERVATION stopped just short of banning human beings from setting foot on the property. Consequently, it gave me an illicit thrill to veer left onto a narrow road plastered with Private Property, Keep Out, No Trespassing, This Means You signs. I, of course, had been invited; therefore, I was among the elite to whom the Private Property, Keep Out, No Trespassing, This Means You malarkey did not apply. As I’d wound through the lanes toward the Beamon Reservation, the dogs had begun stirring. The female, who’d been dozing at the rear of the Bronco, got to her feet and gave herself a preparatory shake-all-over. The male, who’d had to be prevented from leaping into the front and then, presumably, into my lap, was now happily taking in the less-than-spectacular scenery. It consisted of low balsam firs, dull maples, ordinary birches, and other secondary and tertiary growth. Now the two big dogs were up on all paws, and both plumy tails were wagging.
    Before long, a yellow clapboard cottage with green shutters appeared on our right. The tidy little house looked unfamiliar to me, but then, so did everything else. As I pulled into a grassy, lightly rutted parking area next to the cottage, waves of anxiety sent hot blood to my face. What was so frightening? The guest cottage had been freshly painted in an especially inviting shade that blended buttercup with rich cream. Far from dangling in sinister disrepair, the deep green shutters created the happy illusion that the cabin’s front windows were two bright eyes radiating a thick-lashed welcome. White geraniums and mottled ivy grew lushly in window boxes, and the shiny green front door practically smiled.
    Hansel and Gretel.
    But where else could I go?
    By now, the handsome male had squeezed his big head past my left shoulder to stick his face out the half-open driver’s-side window. When I twisted around and made a brave, if futile, effort to force him to the rear of the car by shoving on his massive white chest, the female took an opportunistic dive into the front passenger seat. With exquisite delicacy, she stretched her powerful neck and aimed those intelligent almond-shaped eyes past my face toward the opening in the window, as if calculating the odds of soaring over me and into the outdoors. In desperation, I cranked up the window and fished for both leashes, which were still fastened to the dogs’ collars. Gripping the leashes as tightly as my sore hands allowed, I eased open the door. Seconds later, I found myself braced in the bent-knee, flexed-arm semicrouch appropriate to a Godzilla-like professional wrestler with the bulk and muscle to control these beasts.
    It never occurred to me to let the dogs loose. My own vigilance failed to register on me. I did, however, find a peculiar reassurance in my body’s mindless preparation to have both dogs simultaneously hit the ends of their leads in a massive double wham that could otherwise knock me to the ground. The wrestler stance was unnecessary, not because the dogs spontaneously decided to behave themselves, and certainly not because I exerted any influence on their behavior. Rather, it was the appearance of a brand-new white Volvo station wagon that diverted the beasts from what was evidently going to be a headlong gallop for the cottage door. The car approached from the direction opposite the one I’d just driven.
    The driver slowed and stopped alarmingly close to the dogs and me. When she lowered her window, it took my eyes a second to distinguish between the woman herself and the curly-haired white powderpuff of a dog in her lap. As testimony to the erratic and bizarre effects of head injury, let me point out that I not only instantly identified the dog as a bichon frise, but remembered her name: Molly. With absolute certainty, I also knew that the woman had chosen the car to match the white of her dog and that if Volvo had offered a model with a fluffy coat, she’d have been driving it now. The woman herself had straight hair in flattering transition from blond to white. The short, soft cut framed her face. She’d clearly never bothered to protect her fair skin from the sun; her face was tan, and her slightly plump arms were mottled with sun spots. She wore a