Pawsitive Reinforcement

Carrie was picking weeds from her flowerbeds lining the front sidewalk when she saw her neighbor, Phaedra, Marching towards her like on a mission. Phaedra looked like a refugee from the late 1960s or early 70s-time warp. She was packing an oversized beaded hemp bag, wearing a tie-dye t-shirt, calf length multi-colored Bombas in Birkenstocks with a paisley headband wrapped around her unkempt hair. Capping off the “just walked out of the commune” period piece, Phaedra reeked of lavender Patchouli handcrafted soap.  

            “What now?” she told her mixed Shepard-Lab, Hercule, who immediately resorted to barking, warning Carrie of impending doom and gloom. 

            “Carrie, did you know Olympia has a leash law?” 

            “So I heard. How did you get loose?” 

            “Cute.” 

            “You look as if you have something on your mind.”

            “I do as a matter of fact. Is there anything you can do about your dog’s incessant barking?” 

            Phaedra could be a supreme pain in the ass without exerting the slightest effort. She was one of those self-absorbed baby boomers who didn’t like being inconvenienced, a diehard vegan who preached the said gospel at every turn, and a fervent practitioner of tai chi at the nearby mall. Included in her pedigree, she was as much a chronic complainer as Hercule was an unrelenting barker.  

            “Why must he bark all the time?”

            “He’s a dog. They sometimes bark. Especially when they see or hear something that causes them duress.”

Carrie rose and stretched out her back.

 “And I have to ask. Why must you complain all the time? Is your life that miserable?” 

            “The only thing dismal in my life right now is that barking animal of yours,” she said pointing at Hercule.” 

            Carrie had heard enough. “I think your Zen Garden is calling you.” 

            Phaedra turned in a huff and walked away.

            She was right. Hercule’s barking was also riding Carrie’s last nerve. Sometimes all it took was a leaf blowing across the yard to set him off. Carrie had read a magazine article that some pet owners had resorted to using electric shock collars on their dogs to discourage barking. 

After considerable research, Carrie came across a citronella dog collar advocated by an animal behavior specialist at the Washington College of Veterinary Medicine. They could be purchased on-line in an assortment of colors. Carrie chose Cheetah Spots.  

            “The way the collar works is like this,” she told her daughter, Brynn, a junior at Gonzaga. “The mechanism fits snugly against the dog’s throat and when the barking becomes steady, frequent or loud, something internal causes the device to sense the bark’s vibration. It then triggers the collar to release citronella oil spray.” 

            The directions also stated that two or three barks were not enough to activate the collar. That was good enough for Carrie. Citronella smell wafting about in the house was not her idea of a suitable air freshener.  

            When Carrie’s kids lived at home, she told them she would never make them do anything she wouldn’t do herself. It only seemed fitting that the same should also apply to Hercule. On the back porch, she filled the device with the recommended amount of citronella oil and gave the collar “a test drive.” 

Carrie placed the collar to her larynx and began trying to replicate Hercule’s bark. After several futile attempts to attain the right pitch, Phaedra’s head poked above the fence line and disappeared. Determined to make it work, Carrie surmised that maybe the collar needed to fit more snugly against her larynx. She spotted Hercule who was peering at her from the back door. She let him out to join her.

            With the nylon strap in hand, she shortened its length and fastened it around her neck until it was snug against her voice box. She took another crack at it and hit a near perfect pitch of an acceptable bark—a deep bellow with a snappy and sharp finish. 

            About this time, Phaedra’s head poked over the top of the fence once again. The visual made Carrie laugh. It reminded her of the Whac-A-Mole game her kids had where the mole springs out of a hole, and if you don’t strike it fast enough with a rubber mallet, it retreats and disappears. 

            Carrie knew she could do better. She needed to raise the bark up a couple of octaves on the front end. Finally, she found the bark she’d been seeking. She felt a vibrating sensation on her throat followed by a dose of citronella oil sprayed into her nose and face.   

            She coughed violently, which prompted the collar to discharge even more of its contents into her nasal cavity. Catching a breath was becoming imperative. Now down on her hands and knees, gasping for air and blinded, Hercule began barking. Somehow, this caused the device to activate again, prompting even more spray to discharge. 

            Between her gagging and yelling at Hercule to shut up, any raspy pleas for neighborly assistance went unchecked. The collar was now in automatic spray mode. With her hands saturated with citronella oil, her fingers kept slipping from the clasp, making it impossible to unfasten the collar. After several tries, she was successful and flung the device across the yard. 

            She laid on her back, eyes closed, and let her lungs fill with precious air. When she was able to gain re-gain focus, the first thing she saw was Hercule hanging over her with the collar in his mouth, followed by Phaedra crashing through the backyard gate. 

            “What took you so long? Didn’t you…didn’t you hear me gasping for air?” Carrie said in a less than audible voice.

            “After I saw you barking like a dog, I went inside the house and locked the doors. Then I heard you wheezing and choking and I thought, ‘Well, I wonder if she needs help.’”

            “Being the good neighbor?” 

            “Something like that,” said Phaedra as Carrie clasped her hand around Phaedra’s. As she laid there a couple of minutes collecting herself, she noticed something was missing. Hercule wasn’t barking and out of the corner of her eye she saw Phaedra petting him. Phaedra helped Carrie back on her feet as she staggered inside to the shower to wash away the remnants of the human patio Tiki torch she had become.

Swallowed

It had been the red-breasted nuthatch that caught his attention. He recognized the bird’s signature song, a fast series of nasal, hornlike notes building until they crescendo with a vibrating trill. The bird watcher’s fine-tuned ear placed the nuthatch on the private property that bordered the adjacent rails-to-trail. The walking trail was once an abandoned railroad spur that transported limestone from quarry to mill. He had heard that its mined and milled slabs are part of the National Cathedral, Empire State Building, and in 35 state capitols. In re-construction of the Pentagon after the 9/11 terrorist attack, contractors used 15,000 cubic feet of its Bedford limestone.

            As the mining of quarries increased, groundwater tables dropped, causing pockets of the surrounding countryside to develop shallow depressions called sinkholes. To the bird watcher, their pockmarks resembled shell craters created by yet another of man’s indignation with his fellow human being.

            In retrospect, if only the bird watcher had kept his focus on the trees, what went down would’ve gone sight unseen. Bird watchers are an inquisitive breed. It’s in their DNA—they feel compelled to explore closer. Had he paid heed to the “No Trespassing” sign, there would’ve been many more pleasurable days of peaceful bird watching ahead.

            For the bird watcher, March in southern Indiana is prime for those who desire a robust “bird life” annual list. It’s the windy month as breezes rally in from the south, red-tailed and broad-winged hawks catch rising thermals and slice elegantly through the sky. Mourning doves begin to nest, and wildflowers bloom as sunlight gleams through leafless branches and warms the ground. Tree buds swell and the first wave of migratory birds make their presence, announcing spring has sprung. Red-wings scour the countryside as blue jays, chickadees, and red-bellied woodpeckers find refuge in the woods.

            Near the end of the month, the ubiquitous swallow appears, followed by purple martins. Come April, the bustling month, trees blossom, leaves open and the swallows swoop over fields with their non-stop aerial pageantry. It is at the end of April and the first of May when bird watchers feast on their big days. However, so goes May, so go the migrant birds who begin winging their way north, leaving only summer residents to tend to familial avian needs.

            By May’s end, southern Indiana’s wetlands and woods spawn yet another winged inhabitant; the pesky mosquito. Only the heartiest bird watcher braves its swarms and annoying bite in search of birds for his or her annual list. With many of his bird watching brethren having retreated from the woods into air chilled controlled environs, the bird watcher could take more risks, free from the watchful eye of his peers.     

            The bird watcher had always thought of himself to be an ethical person, although nobody had informed him of such who knew the meaning of the word. He was a shy person at heart who for the most part refrained from socializing. Some would say that he was introverted, a common misconception often associated with bird watchers. Quite the contrary, actually. Many bird watchers are excellent conversationalists. Particularly when talking about their most favored topic, birds. 

            Before entering the small patch of meadow that separated the asphalt trail from the property owner’s fence line, the bird watcher looked in all directions before proceeding. When he reached the fence, he placed his left foot into one of its rectangular openings, grabbed the metal fence post with his left hand, and swung both legs over the top. He did not find it particularly worrisome that he had flouted the property owner’s “No Trespassing” sign, thus breaching one of the more sacred of birding tenets as defined by the North American Birdwatchers Association in its “Principles of Birding Ethics,” “Thou shall not trespass.”

            About a hundred yards onto the property, he could make out a large man standing on a truck bed. A man that he could only assume was the property owner. Why else would he be there? Whoever it might be was removing something cradled in a canvas tarp that had the indentation of a head. The bird watcher laid low and crept forward to gain a better view through his binoculars.

            “What’s he doing?” said the bird watcher talking to himself.

            The man jumped off the tailgate to the ground, scooped his arms underneath what appeared to be something dead weight, before laying it on the ground gently.

            “It didn’t have to be this way!” he said with remorse in his voice.

            The mysterious man then grabbed a shovel from the truck bed and rammed it into the ground, making it stand upright. That was all the bird watcher needed to see—it was time to go. That was when he stepped on a branch that made a cracking sound like one makes snapping kindling for a campfire. This caused him to rise and sprint towards the fence.

            He was just about to the property line when he heard what he thought was a rifle shot.

Surely, he hadn’t angered the property owner to the degree that he took a pot shot at him. There was no time to climb over the fence. Instead, he grabbed the fence pole on the run and hurled himself over the single top strand of rusted barbed wire. All that remained in front of him was an open meadow—an easy shot, even for a novice shooter. Either direction, it was a good 300-yard sprint to any tree line that could provide ample cover. He ran serpentine as he moved past the asphalt trail onto what local bird watchers call Swallow’s Glade. His breathing became labored because of his lack of physical conditioning. 

Halfway across the glade he felt something brush his right shoulder, followed by a swishing noise at ear level. To his right he glimpsed two swallows cutting off to his left for another pass. A third swallow was chasing a red-tailed hawk over the adjacent wooded area. The swallows would make at least two more swooping dives at him before he made the tree line. He now recalled the tree swallow nesting boxes placed in the meadow. His intrusion upon their nesting ground had angered yet another resident, this time swallows protecting their young.

            As he put more distance between him and the riled birds, he could see the tree line a mere fifty yards before him. He listened for the sound of a high-caliber rifle. When he made the tree line he didn’t stop there. His adrenalin propelled him deeper into the wooded area until he felt airborne, free-falling 50 or more feet before crumpling unconscious.

When he failed to show for work over the next couple of days, relatives and co-workers became concerned. They found his car at the trailhead parking lot which appeared unmolested. Law enforcement ruled out foul play, and a search party was launched by members of the local chapter of the North American Birdwatchers Association. After being given a tip from a local landowner that an intruder entered his property who matched the description of the missing bird watcher, association members discontinued their search.

            The land owner added that at the time he spotted the trespasser, he was putting his aged and beloved Chesapeake Bay Retriever down. The poor animal could no longer stand on its own four legs without the help of its caregiver.

            In a news story done on the fifth anniversary of the bird watcher’s disappearance, the piece quoted his sister:

 “It was as if the earth swallowed him up whole and he disappeared.”