Freedom
My girls, my two dogs Lilly and Birdie and I go for long walks two or three times a week at NoseHill, which is a short car ride away. I feel bad, sometimes, about using the gas to get there, but this hill is our favourite place. Even in the winter, when the girls are forced to bound through the snow, and I have to either push myself a new path or step into the steps of strangers, this is where we come. It is where we witness the seasons changing, where we bird watch and plant scout, where the girls sniff and run, occasionally discovering the scent of a wild animal.
Having an “anxious attachment” style, for most of the five years we’ve been doing this, both girls have remained on leash. Even Lilly who, while enjoying the occasional forray to the end of her leash, has always stayed close to me, booping the back of my legs and laying her jowels in my outstretched hand, always letting me know that she’s there, that she’s close, that she’s not going anywhere.
Finally, at the beginning of this summer, I decided to try letting Lilly offleash even though my mind projected visions of her getting lost, of never seeing her again, of coyote attacks and serial killers and all the horrible things that could happen. I shook the visions off and I unclipped the leash and I let her go, and she, for the most part, has stayed even closer ever since.
With this experiment having gone well, I decided to let Birdie free, just for a little while, when I can see that she won’t face any distractions or temptations. Birdie is different than Lilly. She chases after life with a hunger that cannot be quelled. When she runs, she runs full speed, her head pulling her body move faster than her body can go. When she eats, she eats as if she will never have the opportunity again, gobbling her food at full speed. When she plays, she is teeth bared and batting paws, she kicks and swings her body around, tail still wagging, but rough and she has had to work hard to soften, to make it easier to play with her. She deserves some freedom, she will love it, so I let her offleash.
The first time I did it she ran, just a few meters away, but at top speed, and then came running back to me. I was so happy, I could have died. Lilly was equally thrilled, goading her, pushing her to run again with her. They ran up the path together, but when I yelled out, “Stay close to Momma,” they stopped, and ran back to get me. I could have died happily right there.
The second time I did it, Birdie attacked her sister, which is what she does again today. This time, given freedom, her first instinct is to go after her sister, to try to herd her, either trying to either get Lilly to do exactly what she wants, or trying to get rid of her for good (Birdie likes being the center of attention, and was likely meant to be an only dog); which I’m not sure. The point is, instead of running, like she’s loved to do since she was a puppy, instead of sniffing what she wants without her leash getting tangled beneath her bow legs, instead of bounding and racing like she did the first time, she charges at her sister, trying to fit Lilly’s whole head in her mouth, nipping at her heals, rearing up and pushing her away, growling and yelling. She is using her freedom to try and control Lilly, which just doesn’t work. She needs to go back on the leash.
As I put Birdie back on her leash, clipped to the front of her harness, I know it’s not the end of my trying. Birdie deserves to be free. I think about how I’ll try in another spot next time, another section of our walk, on another day. I’ll let her free when Lilly is right by my side, I’ll push her bum to a run before she gets distracted by Lilly’s presence. I know that I will try again to break this new habit that’s keeping her from enjoying herself. That’s keeping her from enjoying her freedom. I know I’ll keep trying, with the hope that she will learn the truth about freedom: that the only way to keep your own, is to uphold the freedom of others.
I’m sure it would be the same for you: her behaviour doesn’t make me angry at her. It doesn’t make me think less of her. I love her for who she is, what she is. I know her heart is good. I know how smart she is. I know how much she’s learned so far, how much she’s softened and how big her heart has grown. That despite trying to lose her sister on a hill, that she would also do anything to protect her, given an intruder in the house, or the approach of a not-as-friendly dog, or a not so-great-vibes person. I know that she is heaven in a furry little body, and I wonder if that’s how God is thinking right now, or Mother Earth, or the Universe, or any other name that you would give a benevolent creator. I wonder if that is what they are thinking, as they watch us all fight and destroy each other and ourselves. Are they too watching with that pure of a love, pure acceptance, the knowing, like mine, that Birdie is both perfect and imperfect, all at once. That she’ll figure it out, how to be free, and that it’s my job to give her as many opportunities as I can to do so.
As we walk, alone on the vast hill, so much space that it makes it easy to forget that the fields of grass and patches of trees don’t go on forever, I notice that I am still walking on the right side of the path, and I wrangle constantly for the girls to do the same. “This side, Lilly, this side.” The whole hill is empty, not a cyclist, or a hill walker, or a dog in site. But still, “Birdie, this way. Over this side!” The hill is ours, this wild is ours to explore for now, and still I stay contained to two and a half feet of concrete, kept in my place by a thin yellow line of years-old paint. There’s nobody else in the park, but I stay where I’m supposed to and I can’t help but think that this is no better. This is not how you accept freedom either. I look down at the hill below us, the forest of trees, looking so much like lungs that it confirms that this planet is a surrealist version of itself. There is one tree, amongst all the green, that has sniffed out the winter first. It is yellow, bright yellow, standing alone, ready. Soon the other trees will follow, accepting the winter as it comes.
When Lilly, our little pathfinder*, picks out a path that veers left rather than the big path to the right that we usually take, the one that makes a big loop down to the parking lot, I hesitate. I try to convince Lilly to take the path we know, but then, because she insists, because she looks so excited, her eyes shining and her bum bouncing, and because I need more freedom in my life, I follow her. I have no idea where the path leads. It could veer further left, it could head to the other half of the hill, the half that we have never explored before, and I have things that I have to do today, timelines to line up to, and I can feel my nerves jangling like keys in a pocket. Such a small thing, such a small test. I take a deep breath and tell myself that we can easily turn around if this path doesn’t work, if it doesn’t get us to where we need to go. It’s not that big of a deal. Birdie and I follow Lilly.
Not too far down, the path splits, one half left, one half right, and of course the right half moves in the direction we were going to go. Except this path is more fun. It’s lined with trees and it curves and twists, made of rock and undefined gravel. The girls are running and sniffing, wildly veering from side. Lilly is so pleased with herself, for choosing this route. Birdie has forgotten that she’s unleash, forgotten her need to control (or get rid of) her sister. We run in spots and zig and zag, enjoying our new discovery.
Finally, the path merges with our regular one, with the concrete one, the one with the yellow line and the footwide bank. Just as we merge onto it, as I encourage the girls towards our acceptable space (this section of the path gets busy), a bike approaches us in the mist. I can feel Birdie pulling at her leash, the defiance of a fish on the line. She doesn’t like it, this bright thing that is heading towards her, far too fast, from out of the mist. I clip Lilly so that we’re all connected, and I pull Birdie close, asking her to trust me. She pulls at first, trying to run away, but as I tell her that we’re alright, that I’m here, that we’re together, she calms, she sits, and we huddle in the brush as the bike passes us, and then we continue towards the car. Freedom is great, but when things get scary we need to pull in close to each other,
*Lilly is SO my dog. She loves paths! LOVES them!! It’s the only time that she’ll stray, if she sees an inviting little path to explore. I remember when I was a kid, being mesmerized by one of Emily Carr’s paintings at the Glenbow museum, a winding path into the woods. I’ve been obsessed ever since. SO glad Lilly shares that with me.