Summer Saturday's Ravine

Today the creek rushes through the ravine, swollen with last night's rain, muddy and fierce in its determined direction. Formerly tinder-dry, the ravine has been resuscitated, rescued from its dry spell, the plants languishing in the heat, the earth cracking beneath our feet. It's heavily overcast, the threat of ongoing rain events continues, and we're wearing light rain gear, happy to be out. The newly-rehabilitated trail that the municipal works crew created with the considerable assistance of a Bobcat only two days previously has weathered the rain well. We come across no other walkers.

Yesterday we came across an excellent cross-sampling of nearby residents coming through the ravine, on foot, in pairs and singles, as well as young families. On two-wheelers, young boys and girls thrilled to be out on a cool, humid and overcast day when school is out and they're on their own with no thoughts of classrooms and homework to bedevil them for the rest of the summer. There are runners, ears plugged with the sound of personal music choices.

They're not the only ones out and about. Goldfinches weave their way through the trees, robins hop about on the ground, and cardinals thrust their warbling high notes high on the still air, through the treetops. A small rabbit hurriedly hops across the trail into the underbrush, and red squirrels, grey and black squirrels, and chipmunks busy themselves up and down tree trunks. Sumach candles are beginning to turn their inimitable bright red.

I can hardly believe Queen Anne's lace is already beginning to bloom. As well as cornflowers; isn't it too early in the season? Is summer slipping by so quickly? Yarrow is now in flower, and heliotrope, and good grief, ragweed. And there, where they appear regularly every year, a group of Tiger lilies, bright, insouciantly orange. Milkweed as well, and finally we see our first Monarch butterfly of the season.

Something far ahead is bounding up the trail toward us, raggedly cream-coloured and swift. It's none other than the irrepressible Toby, one of those heedlessly, happily bumptious little dogs of mixed breeding whose enthusiasm is so boundless no one can resist admiring him. Something tiny, a cream and russet wisp of an animal is right behind him, dragging a red leash, as determined as Toby to come abreast of a different brace of animals.

Toby knows Button and Riley, and they him, and they little react to one another other than a casually friendly acknowledgement. The tyke of a Yorkie stops short of reaching Button and Riley, hesitates, runs back down the trail, turns and scampers back up again, to finally reach first Button, then Riley, daintily leaping with its tiny front paws on each of them in turn. And finally, Toby's owner hoists herself into view, with her brassy red helmet of hair.

She's dog-sitting, she tells us. It's her sister's dog. Her sister is back in hospital for rehabilitation. She's an incurable alcoholic. Long separated from her husband, she tells us. He finally left after one binge-and-hospitalization too many. No children, all to the good. They'd known one another long before marrying, were in fact schoolyard buddies, but he loved her and thought he could turn her around. Now, she has only a dog for company, that tiny wisp.

Not for long, though, since she's incapable of looking after it. Paid $1,500 for the terrier, she said to us, with lifted eyebrow, but she'll have to give it up. It's high maintenance, needs a lot of care and attention - and so does her sister. Only seven months old, weight negligible, energy obviously inexhaustible. We walk along together, all four dogs variously engaged, the tiny pup rushing about everywhere, curious to know everything possible about its world.

I've recommended removing its leash, feeling it a hazard, dragging along, catching now and again on protruding roots, but to no avail. Two middle-aged women are descendingthe last long hill leading to our street, and one of them knows Toby's owner. Both women exclaim over the appealing little dog, and they're informed it's up for grabs. Not house broken, unfortunately. The owner will likely accept less than what she paid.

Peoples' personal tragedies are profoundly sad. The casual disposal of a tiny living creature highly dependent on dedicated attention to its needs moves us greatly. What a complex world of struggle, failure and occasional triumphs we inhabit. Good thing humans are motivated by hope for the future, assurance that they will surely surmount all difficulties placed before them.

Dependent creatures offer us the opportunity to reveal our inner selves for unquestioning love and loyalty. We must needs be capable of providing the basic necessities and securities of existence for them. In the hopes that we can do likewise for ourselves.