Creature Discomforts

temporarily distracted me from thinking about the nameless man who’d fallen to his death. The ghoulish tourists had been heading up. I’d just come down. Therefore, I must have been nearby when the man died, right? This sense of jeopardy? And responsibility? Since the miraculous arrival of the dogs, my fear had begun to lift a bit, yet there remained a biting feeling of danger. For the first time, I desperately wanted to get away from here. My anxiety now had a practical element. Although I was feeling physically and mentally better by the moment, the prospect of being questioned by park rangers about the fatal accident scared me silly. I’d be unable to answer simple questions about where I’d been and what I’d done today. The dogs might be taken from me! We had to leave right now.
    The male tourist had pointed to a trail that led to a spring that wasn’t worth seeing and to something called the Nature Center. I’d seen the name on the map. The place had a parking lot. And park rangers? I had no idea, of course, where I’d parked my car. I felt sure that I had one. After all, I had a ring of keys, and the dogs and I had arrived here in something. I somehow imagined my car as a vehicle befitting my splendid dogs: a luxurious four-by-four with leather upholstery and a great sound system. A Land Rover. A Mercedes. No, a Bentley! That was it! A Bentley! Dogs like these traveled in magnificence. I’d know my Bentley anywhere. It would, of course, have Massachusetts plates.
    More to the point, the dogs would know their Bentley anywhere. Better yet, they’d remember where it was. Looking to the dogs for direction, I let their leads go loose. In uninformative fashion, they sniffed the ground, anointed a couple of trees, and then looked at me. For direction! I felt ashamed of myself for letting them down. Having no idea what else to do, I took a few random steps and said brightly, “Let’s go! Come on, guys! Let’s go!” After pitying the poor creatures who evidently relied on me to take the lead, I found it disconcerting to have them suddenly strike out down a trail with swaggering self-confidence. To my relief, the path they chose was not the one to the Nature Center. Rather, it was a flat continuation of Kurt Diederich’s Climb that went past The Tam and soon led to a small parking area next to a substantial blacktopped road. Route 3? Certainly.
    The small lot was evidently not where I’d parked my Bentley. Tired-looking parents and a large number of screaming children were piling into an admirable red van with mountain bikes on a carrier at the back and a sea kayak on top. It had a Michigan plate. A new cream-colored VW bug was from Massachusetts. It would barely have held one of these dogs, never mind both of them and a driver, too. Besides, it wasn’t a Bentley. Neither was anything else in sight. To my chagrin, the dogs unhesitatingly made for the oldest and most battered-looking car in the lot. The blue, dirt-covered Ford Bronco had, damn it, a Mass. plate and a lock on the driver’s side door that fit one of the keys on my ring. The floor mats in front were decorated with large, stylized paw prints. Echoing the motif, dog hair was interwoven with fabric through the car. The windows bore translucent designs of what I guess should be called “saliva art” or perhaps “tongue painting.” The rear passenger seat was folded down. Tucked between it and the driver’s seat was a woman’s leather shoulder bag. It contained a wallet, a cosmetics bag, a purse-size photo album, tissues, pens, a steno pad, and other pocketbook junk. In the back were an old blanket, a couple of stainless steel dog bowls, and two big bottles of Maine spring water.
    Ripping the female’s saddlebags from the Velcro strips that held it to her vest, I dumped it in the car, and then got both dogs in. After adding water to the steel bowls, I lowered myself into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and put on the air conditioning. Tepid air drifted from the vents. Damn. Worse, an accidental glance in the rearview mirror I revealed that rice or no rice, I was unmistakably Caucasian. My first impression was of a human golden retriever.
    But the car offered at least a little good news. According to the gas gauge, the tank was full. Opening the big map that had been in the dogpack, I located the Nature Center, which was just off Route 3 near the intersection with the Park Loop Road. In one direction on Route 3, at no great