“Amigo can get his travel certificate from the vet today. You can pick him up this afternoon.”
My heart surges with joy to hear those words from the breeder. It was just before our trip to Alaska, and oblivious to any logistical considerations, I want to take that 9-week-old puppy with me. I call the airline to make the arrangements.
The day drags by until the time when DH and I can drive out to the kennel. We meet Amigo’s parents,
get advice about what puppy food is best and such things, and after reimbursing them for the vet visit, he’s ours to take home. Amigo settles on the bench seat between us in the truck, as though he’s done it forever. We can only hope that he will be that adaptive to plane and boat travel.
We stop at the pet store to pick up the essentials. Now, I’m familiar with big box stores. A good number of the items in my cupboards are Kirkland brand. And after two years of working on home remodeling projects, I can draw you a map of the interior of Home Depot. But this was my initiation into the captivating world of PetSmart. It’s your one stop shopping experience for all things doggie, including the dog itself if you go on the weekends when the Humane Society has them there for adoption. The main difference between it and other mega-stores, is that PetSmart seems to have a representative on every other aisle to assist you in your buying decisions. I now realize there may be no one as gullible as a new puppy-parent. It doesn’t take much to convince me that I need to buy lots of things in order to be a good one. Soon my cart is full to overflowing with travel crate, bedding, puppy food, toys, dishes, collar, leash, and treats. I make my way past the books and magazines towards the check-out counter. A title something like “How to Train Your Puppy in Just 15 Minutes” catches my eye. Aha, that’s the one for me, and it goes in the cart, too. By the time I check out, I’m pleased with myself. The total on the receipt measures what a responsible dog owner I am. I’m so busy feeling smug that it doesn’t occur to me how I will get it all to Alaska.
I’ll skip relating all the events of the next thirty hours before we departed for the airport. Suffice it to say the time flew by, what with taking care of all the last minute chores, packing suitcases, removing things from suitcases to make room for other things, cleaning up piddles, and realizing you can’t train a puppy in 15 minutes. The truth began to dawn on me that maybe Amigo can be a good dog without all the extra toys and treats I just bought for him. He seems happy just to shadow us, carrying around a blue stuffed dog that’s almost as big as he is, sniffing every item as it’s packed, and barking indignantly at both broom and vacuum.
We’re bushed by the time we depart the house at 3 in the morning. Amigo is content in his crate on the way to airport, through the check-in and security. At last, the flight takes off! It makes a short stopover in Juneau, where the airport is just a few miles from Mendenhall glacier. It is a sapphire in the sun out the airplane window.
I recline in the seat for the final leg of the trip to Sitka, watching the mountains of Admiralty Island scroll by.
Sitka is a lively place in the summer. The fishing season is in full swing, and Sitka is a major delivery port. Smaller sport boats, chartered to take visiting fishermen out to the salmon-rich waters, weave among the larger commercial vessels. Huge cruise ships lay at anchor, the tourists lightered to shore to see the museums and historical sights of what was once the capitol of Russian America. I behave like the rest of the visitors and head for quaint downtown to drop some money at the shops. My favorite is Abby’s Reflection, where you can find a mix of clothing, jewelry, fabric, and quilts, all with a local flavor.
We visit friends and family, buy provisions, load the boat, and head for our island home.
When we get there, does Amigo know he’s home? Do traces of our scent remain in the house even though we haven’t been there for so long? Or is it just that since we make ourselves at home, he does, too? With a puppy at our heels, we inspect each room, open cupboards and drawers, and delight in rediscovering things we’d left behind or forgotten about. Amigo doesn’t find it to be nearly as stimulating as we do, and opts for a nap, worn out from the long boat ride.
Time has it’s own rhythm here. It’s about the sun and the tide, not about the clock or the calendar. The days are long and we stay up late. We sleep in. We linger over coffee. We talk a lot and don’t say much. We spend more time visiting friends and neighbors than we did when we lived here. Rain postpones intended chores outside, giving an excuse for reading instead, listening to the quiet. I paint the kitchen vibrant yellow, chasing away the gray. Amigo is in his element. Life was made for him, or so his happy manner conveys. The tide flats are his playground. He discovers the water:
Lounges in the kelp:
Finds sticks and shells:
And plays hide-and-seek in the tall beach grass:
The time goes by all too quickly. There are obligations elsewhere. We have plane reservations that we can’t change. So, we’re packing once again. The stuffed blue dog doesn’t make the cut. Amigo chewed him endlessly and then figured out how to pull the stuffing out. The weather is good for travel. It’s time. I’m wistful as the boat speeds away.
Ah, but it was good to go.
-Amigo’s friend
