(with apologies to John Steinbeck’s Travelling with Charley)

As I may have mentioned, one of my goals at Erywilde is the reduction of the mammal population, things such as rats, mice, squirrels, opossums, raccoons, coyotes, etc.

As one method to accomplish this reduction, I decided to get a “good dog”. A “good dog” being one that would chase and occasionally capture any and all of the aforementioned vermin. After careful research, I decided on a Border Terrier. The border, although small, is a friendly dog – friendly with other dogs, friendly with children, friendly, sadly, with strangers. So, they sometimes go off with strangers. Also, when on the trail of their quarry, they are singularly focused, prone to darting out in front of speeding cars, and in the case of the land around Erywilde, pickup trucks.

Oh, and they don’t come when you call if they don’t want to.

All this great “doggyness” for a mere $1,500! So with a Border, you basically have $1,500 running around that doesn’t always come, doesn’t look when crossing the road, will eat itself to death, and that will gladly go off with a stranger. Hmmm.

So, instead, I “put the word on the street” (spoken by Cab Callaway in The Blues Brothers, one of my favorite movies) that I was looking for a rescue Border Terrier. As you might imagine, most people would take pretty good care of their little $1,500 bundle of financial investment and rescue Borders are, in a word, rare.

Happily, last week, I received an email from a friend in the rescue “business” that identified a “border” mix. It included lots of pictures and the old boy’s lineage definitely spoke “border terrier” along with shouting a cacophony of other dogs. He was ugly. Borders are scruffy to begin with but this guy took scruffy to a whole new level, adding a massive head that looked more at home on a Bull terrier than Border. Maybe with some boxer thrown in. He weighed in at 50+ pounds, and, according to the shelter, was soon to join the sad list of  “not rescued”.

I forwarded the email to my adult children. When my daughter saw it and reported crying about the prospect of saving the dog’s life, I definitely was moved. Moved to find out if she was crying because he was so short for this world or crying because he was so ugly.

The next morning saw me rolling up I-75 in the Irvan to “check it out”. After only a few miles, I left the protected corridor of I-75 (protected from all the inconveniences that used to accompany road trips but also from all the interesting and beautiful stories hidden just out of view of the passing car).  Northern Georgia holds the southern terminus of the Smoky Mountains so it is hilly. Old roads most frequently follow valleys as they were flat and easier to negotiate. My route, US411, followed such a valley.

The traffic was light. While working my way north in the valley, I listened, via audiobook, to John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley.

Steinbeck is trying to “rediscover” America and often bemoans the changes he sees, from a calmer, more sensible time to a modernity where he likens humans to flocks of turkeys and hills of ants. But I think “better” is in the eye of the beholder. If you are an ant, an ant hill looks pretty good.

Driving through Ranger, Georgia, a town of maybe 50 inhabitants, I wondered what these people did for a living. Ga411 was a busy road at one time, many years ago. That time and its traffic died when I-75 was completed just a few miles to the west. It is sad and depressing to me to drive through a dying town. Even sadder to drive through a dead town.

Steinbeck agrees that you “can’t go home”.  Once you leave, the townsfolk remember you as you were when you left and that memory never changes. If you reappear, you make a lie of their memories. They have to update their memories and they have become fond, oh so fond, of those memories. The intrusion of reality is an unwelcome event.

Maybe towns’ memories are frozen in time just like peoples’.

A key philosopher in the book was Charley, Steinbeck’s dog. Charley was a no nonsense, carpe diem, sort of creature. He would assiduously leave his scent in all the best places every time he had the opportunity. He only wanted to know who had preceded him and to leave a mark for those who would follow. A good, simple Weltanschauung.

I continued on through Maryville, TN, to the Blount County Animal Shelter. It was located in a poor part of town on a rather nice piece of property, maybe five acres. I had to wait for a couple of cars leaving the single track drive. As they drove past me, I wondered if they were there to drop off or pick up. I hoped to pick up.

Proceeding, I came to a nice, clean, fairly modern shelter. Although the door to “drop off” was clearly marked, I saw none that said “pick up”. Hmmm. Entering the “drop off” door, I saw a man dropping off a rather large cat in a cage. He took the cage. He did not show any emotional attachment and I wondered if he caught stray cats. Maybe there is a reward – not a bad idea.  It would help reduce the stray cat population and give a little income to people willing to capture cats.

When asked what I needed, I said that I was there to pick-up “Bama.” All the staff got very excited, telling me how great he was, how well behaved, etc. But I was prepared against the anticipated sales talk with a list of questions my wife had prepared – How old is he? Why is he still here? Does he bite? Is his name really “Bama?”  Does he have all his shots?

I carefully wove the questions into my conversations with the staff. One staff member, “J”, was a 13 year old with a real passion for animals. He wants to attend Cornell Veterinary School and if I ever have a beloved animal that needs medical care, I will seek out J.

He loved Bama and believing that his opinion was the most honest (although there was no reason to suspect the other’s motivations) I gave it the most weight.

Bama was coming home.

Returning by a different route, we made a number of stops to allow Bama a chance to stretch his legs and to get to know me a little better. He was very calm and willing to explore with me. This route went right through the mountains. It was beautiful but winding and mountainous. We stopped by one very old abandoned log/timber cabin with a lot of interesting siding. (I am always on the lookout for “distressed” wood for the cabin.)

We stopped at a hiking trail crossing and got out to explore. It was a John Muir trail. One side went up the mountain, the other, to a mountain creek. Lovely.

Such a long day and still so far to go. Ducktown was the next “major” town. Actually it was the megalopolis of Copper Hill and Ducktown. Couldn’t really tell where one began and the other ended. I remember Copper Hill from my High School geography class as an example of the damage done by strip mining.  Also, in this area, the 1996 Olympics held the venue for the kayaking competition. Beautiful country and not too commercialized. Next on the trip is McCaysville. It sits on the Oconee river on the Georgia side.

Now in Georgia, I picked up Hwy 5/515 which wends its way out of the mountains and merges into Interstate 575. Zooming along at 70 mph, I was deaf to the stories calling out as we were passing through, but as a horse returning to its own barn, I was hearing more clearly the call of my own home and I was soon home again.

Here are some pictures of the newest dog in the Erywilde pack.

Frank

ps – we’ve renamed him Traveller (two l’s) after the famous horse of General Robert E. Lee, and based on his early and soon to be many, travels.