Independence Day

It's the start of Fourth of July weekend, but in keeping with our agreement, there will be no independence for this little dog. Instead, we pack up her tie-down and lead line, suit her up in harness and leash, and then head back to the Penobscot River. As we set out, I joke that perhaps Brent will be able to work his rehabilitative magic on this inmate. If not, maybe he can lend Ari a tin cup to scrape across the bars of her jail cell. Greg gives me a tired look in return.

Still, even dealing with our delinquent dog can’t really dampen Greg’s spirits. We are on our way to join our friends Mike and Jean, along with their three-year-old daughter, Olivia, on the Penobscot. This time, we’ll be camping in the shadows of Katahdin, Maine’s highest mountain: a craggy, sleeping dinosaur with a slight curve it its spine and folds of granite running down each enormous flank. The five tribes comprising the Wabanaki Nation have long considered this mountain holy. Out of respect for this sacredness, they do not climb the mountain but, instead, conduct annual religious ceremonies at its base, paying tribute to Kathadin and its spirits.
For most visitors, however, Katahdin is far less a spiritual place than it is a mere cardiovascular challenge. The crown jewel of Maine’s Baxter Park, a 200,000 acre wilderness area, Katahdin sees thousands of tourists each year, making it one of the most popular recreation destinations in the area. Because the alpine landscape is so fragile, the park limits the number of permits it offers for hiking, camping, and climbing each year. They are awarded on a first-come, first-served basis beginning January 1st. Regardless of winter weather, dozens of intrepid hopefuls spend their New Year’s Eve camped out in front of the state park headquarters, awaiting a chance to summit the grand mountain or cast their flies and match wits with brook trout eight months later.

Today, the long line of vehicles crawling towards the park confirms that popularity. It also makes for very slow going. As Greg navigates the traffic and Ari sleeps in the back of the cab, I count cars and trucks. There are two distinct types of vehicles here: large trucks with ATVs, fishing poles, and gun racks; and sporty cars overflowing with kayaks, backpacks, and ‘Leave No Trace’ bumper stickers. Collectively, they represent the confluence of cultures that meet each summer here in the North Woods: conservationists and preservationists; conservatives and liberals. But for the most part, the politics of red and blue America blend smoothly here, creating what political pundits call a purple response to the environment.

I’m most interested in the history of outdoor recreation around Katahdin, and I consider this something of a literary pilgrimage. In 1846, 29-year-old Henry David Thoreau took a break from his time at Walden Pond and ventured up this way with five companions, including Wabnaki guide Joe Polis. Thoreau later immortalized the trip in a collection of three essays collected posthumously as The Maine Woods, a wonderfully lyrical account of life in Maine’s North Woods. I have the book tucked in my backpack and fully intend to read aloud at the campfire until someone objects. Thoreau loved this place—and so do I.

In spite of their lofty ideals and rhapsodic prose, Thoreau’s party failed to summit the great mountain. We, too, will fail in this endeavor, albeit for very different reasons. The area that is now part of the official park was made so by a gift from the once-governor, Percival P. Baxter. A great nature lover and outdoor enthusiast, Baxter also had a prescient eye for the future of conservation and land use. Foretelling what would become very real issues of land preservation in the second half of the century, Baxter bequeathed the park to the state in 1931, designating it a wilderness and wildlife sanctuary. Because it is not part of the state or national park systems, Baxter Park is free to create rules and policies based on the late governor’s view of nature. One such rule forbids dogs from entering the park. As a result, we and the coydog will camp just outside its boundaries.

I’m curious about this rule, so we stop by park headquarters to speak with Heather Haskell, the park’s interpretive specialist. She seems conditioned to questions regarding the dog policy and offers me a rehearsed—but friendly—explanation.

“Percival Baxter was a great animal lover,” she assures me. “He had a series of Irish Setters all named Garry. You know, Garry I, Garry II, Garry III, Garry IV, and so on. He even built a miniature governor’s mansion on the property for his dogs to occupy. One of the Garries died while he was in office. Baxter actually lowered the state flag to half-mast. People protested, but he didn’t care. That’s how committed he was.”

I nod appreciatively, but she still hasn’t said anything about the policy. I try to ask more directly. Why no dogs?

She seems uneasy, and I get the sense that she has been challenged by aggressive dog owners not willing to leave pooch at home. I tell her we don’t object—we’re just curious.

“Well,” she begins, “the park is a sanctuary. Early on, domesticated animals like dogs and horses were allowed in. But over the years, Baxter began to realize a few things. He was making the park for wild animals. Dogs can interfere with that. They chase squirrels, run down deer, and cause stress to the animals. Some people say, then, that they just won’t take their dogs on hikes. But if you leave your dog at a campsite or in the car, the dog’s upset and barks all day long. That’s no good either. Eventually, we just said no to pets altogether.”

I ask her about the response they receive to this policy. She admits that it varies, and that some visitors feel very strongly about bringing their animals with them on vacation. “And not just dogs,” she adds. “We’ve seen hamsters and snakes and parrots on shoulders. We have to say no to all of them. Even if they’re domestic animals, they can spread disease. And it goes both ways—if your pet runs into a skunk or a porcupine, it can really wreck your trip.”

As soon as we arrive at our campground outside the park, Ari proves Heather Haskell right. The pup lunges at the end of her leash, pursuing a red squirrel (Tamiasciurus hudsonicus). Ari adores them, and back home she plunges into the brush each time she catches sight of their hurky-jerky movement. Tail wagging furiously, she offers each squirrel in the town forest a quick playbow and then takes off in hot pursuit in search of another new friend. Here at the campsite, she seems elated that her rodent compatriots have chosen to join us. She spins with pleasure and wags her whole body at the specimen glowering from a large pine tree.

Little does Ari know she couldn’t have picked a more peevish object for her affection. Despite their Disney-esque appearance, these rodents are the curmudgeons of the boreal forest. Known for their aggressive defense calls and lack of patience for intruders, they possess a wherewithal that far exceeds their 7-ounce frames. Red squirrels also have an outrageously long mating period—from January to September in northern New England. During that time, most females will give birth to two litters of about 5 squirrelettes each. But although their breeding season is quite long, an individual female invites coupling only two days a year—one day for each reproductive cycle. The rest of the time, they’re known to be surprisingly aggressive in warding off any potential courtship. They’re not much more amiable when it comes to their kids. Red squirrel mothers wean their babies after about seven weeks and given them their walking papers after eighteen. This time of year, mom has probably just given her kids the old heave-ho and is gleefully returning to her life of pugnacious solitude. Definitely no time for sentimentality or attachment here.

No tolerance for curious pups, either. This furry critter is quick to reproach Ari. As the pup draws near, rump wagging hopefully and leash trailing behind, the little squirrel pokes its head out of a nook in the tree and scolds—loudly. It chuffs an angry squawk that is half cheep and half hiss from deep within its tiny body, causing its entire torso to convulse from the effort. I’m glad Heather can’t see this obviously stressed rodent—she might push for a ban on dogs altogether. Even Ari recognizes the sound as one of distressed antagonism. It gives her pause. She sits on her back haunches and cocks her head, wondering why the squirrel isn’t enjoying the game as much as she is. The squirrel continues to berate her. Ari tries her best to mimic the chuffing, perhaps hoping that a medley might lure her new friend out of the tree. No luck.

As Ari tries to engage the squirrel, we work on our own tactical maneuver, which consists primarily of trying to steer Ari away from the squirrel. The pup doesn’t notice our advances, but the squirrel does. She halts her tirade against Ari just long enough to assess us. Who’s side are we on? The squirrel can’t tell. She gives us a quick reproach, just in case. Miraculously, Ari doesn’t notice this division in the squirrel’s attention. Instead, she paws at the ground, hoping this will attract her new friend.

It does, but not in a friendly sort of way. The squirrel works its way, headfirst, down a section of the tree and screams at Ari even more loudly. Ari takes this as a hopeful sign and rises on her hind legs, placing both front paws on the trunk of the tree. Meanwhile, Greg has taken matters into his own hands and swooped up the pup as if she were a football. He refrains from an end-zone victory dance.

A few minutes later, our friends arrive. I pull in Ari, worried that her enthusiasm will be too much for little Olivia, but the pup is surprisingly subdued around the toddler. It’s as if she somehow understands Olivia’s youth and fragility. Instead of mauling Olivia with her usual display of spirited greetings, Ari sits sphinx-like next to her new friend, enduring an assault of floppy pats to the top of her head without so much as grimacing. By dinner time, Olivia and Ari are great comrades: the former gathers mounds of leaves and acorns and dirt, offering them all to the pup on a bright red plastic shovel. Ari dutifully takes each scoop, holding its contents in her mouth until Olivia turns her back and she can spit out the forest detritus without offending her new buddy.

The two play this game for hours. As best as I can tell, neither seems all that interested in the fact that we have left the comforts of our homes in order to sleep in the woods. It makes me wonder if they even register the distinction. Kinch certainly did. As far as he was concerned, we embarked upon pure wilderness each time we went camping. This necessitated a decided shift in behaviors, too. On previous camping trips Kinch would hunker down into survival mode as soon as we arrived—burying his food into secret caches and barking at every rustle in the trees.

This was a dog running on pure instinct. He didn’t want to be petted, and he certainly didn’t want to play. We were, he seemed to insist, in crisis mode. That the humans didn’t acknowledge as much clearly infuriated him. He became a self-appointed sentry and team leader, shuttling us this way and that. No time to recreate—we just needed to endure. God willing, we might just get out of that campground alive.

In retrospect, this behavior makes sense to me. Having been on the lam after getting his hunting-dog pink slip, Kinch knew from an early age that wilderness isn’t always your friend. Ari doesn’t seem to share this sense of nature, and she eats dinner with her usual abandon, eventually settling in with us around the campfire. Still, she is more vigilant than usual: even as her eyelids begin to droop, her ears remain alert and hone in on any sound. When one piques her interest, she gives a threatening growl or two before settling back in. This delights Olivia, who clearly sees through the tough-dog exterior. She begins joining Ari in the guttural barks. I refrain from pointing out that no creature, no matter how timid, is likely to be intimidated by this pair of wild things.

By 10:00 p.m., the fire begins to die down. Mike and Greg wrap up their plans for the next day’s paddling, and the four of us stare quietly into the fire. I admit that I’m exhausted and excuse myself for the evening, leading Ari over to our tent. Inside, it takes her about five minutes of shoving her nose into the taut canvas before she understands that, all appearances to the contrary, we are actually inside. She makes several circles around the circumference of the tent, and then finally nestles at the foot of my sleeping bag, delighted to be finally sleeping like a pack. Her happy snores punctuate the cool night air, making me feel close and safe.

Vacationland

July is vacation season. On the first day of the month, I call my mom to see how she has been since hers. It’s been two weeks since she visited, and I still haven’t heard from her. When we speak, she is polite but distant. I worry our debates cut deeper than I thought. We chatter about superficialities—our flower gardens, the weather, my dad’s travel. I tell her I am about to embark upon a 3-day trip aboard the Angelique, a stunning tall-masted ship and part of the Maine Windjammer Association. I’ll be writing about the ship for a regional newspaper, alternating between client and crew for the 72-hour voyage. This piques her interest, and she asks me to tell her more. I explain that each year, these classic sailing ships carry nearly 10,000 vacationers in and out of the islands in the Penobscot Bay. The ships are known not only for the unadulterated views they offer, but also for their conservation of Maine’s island network.

What they’re not known for is being dog friendly, so Greg agrees to take Ari with him on a river trip. He’ll return for a few days to restock his supplies and rendezvous with me; then the three of us will return to the mountains together.

I return from my nautical adventure invigorated and purged of any care or woe. Greg’s clenched jaw tells me his trip has been considerably less cathartic. He listens politely as I spin yarns about knots and island life, but I can tell his mind is elsewhere. After he casts a third tired look in the direction of Ari, I begin to catch his drift.

“The pup,” I ask. “What is it?”

“She’s crazy. I don’t know what to do with her.”

I look again at Ari, who is curled up and snoring in a nook near the woodstove. Her nose and whiskers twitch lightly as she enters a REM cycle. She is the model of docility. “She doesn’t look out of control,” I say gently.

“That’s the thing about her,” Greg says. He has the aura of a conspiracy theorist. He lowers his voice and narrows his eyes, casting them in the direction of the sleeping dog. “She can change.”

I try not to laugh. “You mean like a vampire?”

“Vampires don’t change. You’re thinking of werewolves. And that’s what we have here.” He considers the hyperbole and decides it is too much. “Sort of a werewolf,” he corrects. “More like a wolf in sheep’s clothes. Or a coyote in dog clothes. You know what I mean.”

I have no idea. But I soon learn.

While I was cruising the coast and making new friends, Greg and Ari arrived at his favorite riverside campground on the banks of the Penobscot River—a truly wild place in the northern half of the state filled with thick forest and miles of unsettled white water. There, they met with other paddling friends, a handful of children, and a persnickety cat named Friendly. The grown-ups agreed to a staggered kayaking schedule so that kids, canine, and cat could be supervised at all times. During their down time, Greg and Ari took a quick swim in the river and wandered about the campsite, chatting with new friends. Ari was unleashed, and that seemed to suit them both fine. When it was Greg’s turn to paddle, he left Ari and her leash in the care of our friend Brent. For about an hour or so, Ari hung close to Brent, wading in the river with him and even taking a 3-mile hike. That, she decided, was enough domesticity for one day.

“He said you could see it in her eye,” Greg says. “A little switch was thrown somewhere. She turned into a wild dog.”

“Ferocious?” I try to picture this snoring little creature turning into a werewolf. Even knowing her propensity for willful mischief, it’s impossible.

“Not ferocious,” Greg explains. “Just wild. Totally uncatchable.”

Apparently when people began returning to the campsite after a day of adventure, Brent decided it would be safest to leash up the pup. But Ari wasn’t about to go gently down that road.

Each time Brent moved toward her, she’d scuttle just out of reach. When he took a step back, she’d crouch forward and give a play bark, trying to lure him into lunging at her. When he did, she’d leap away. He tried bribing her with bologna slices, making a little trail of them around the campsite, but she managed to steal all the lunch meat before he could grab her collar. He tried acting disinterested and went to read a book. She accompanied him, making sure he knew she was tantalizingly close but would not be caught.

“This went on for three hours,” Greg tells me. “Three hours. Brent was about ready to kill her, he was so frustrated. And he works with prisoners for a living.”

“I know where Brent works,” I remind him. “And don’t forget, the fundamental difference here is that most prisoners can’t escape. He doesn’t have to catch them.”

Greg fails to see the humor in this last observation. “Brent calls her coy-dog now, you know. He thinks she’s going to run off with her coyote forbearers. He says we better watch out.”

After four full months of canine research, I am positively brimming with information on this subject. I eagerly unleash a stream of what I am certain is fascinating information. I tell Greg that evolutionary biologists have, in fact, confirmed reproduction between domestic dogs and Eastern coyotes. Scientists used to believe that such coupling only happened when it was necessitated by breeding pressures (in other words, when there were no other likely mates to be found). Now, however, they’re beginning to think it’s just another tale of star-crossed lovers. Radio-collared coyotes have been observed instigating play with domestic dogs for years now—wrestling, pouncing, and play biting, all using universal dog cues that say, ‘this is a game.’ A well-known study followed one hapless coyote who tried repeatedly to mate with a golden retriever in Nebraska. In the end, she seemed fairly receptive, though her owners certainly weren’t. They chased the coyote away. A few months later, he was shot and killed by a hunter.

This story sounds like the canine world’s version of West Side Story . It makes me wonder how the pup would do in her own inter-species musical. I tilt my head, humming “I Feel Pretty” and trying to assess Ari’s likeness to Natalie Wood. This causes Greg to sigh heavily. My new enthusiasm for esoteric biology and classic Broadway is not mutual. Reluctantly, I return to the drama at hand.

“So,” I ask. “What happened? You got her on the leash somehow.”

“When I got back from paddling, Brent was leaving a giant trail of bologna slices around the entire campground. It was, like, two pounds of lunch meat. But coy-dog wasn’t interested. She had met another dog by then. . .”

Aha.

“. . . so we waited until she was distracted by him. And then we tackled her.”

Oh dear.

Greg is clearly frustrated and probably embarrassed by this latest show of independence. The looks he casts in the pup’s direction are not warm ones. But as his voice rises, Ari stirs. She sighs and rubs her snout with both front paws, then flips onto her back and resumes her nap. My heart leaps up at this sight. How could you not love this dog?

Still, I know Greg is right. We have a bratty adolescent on our hands—and right on developmental schedule. Even with her hysterectomy, Ari is a hormonal machine right now. And that makes her a danger to herself. She has the will and strength of a mature canine, but none of an adult’s common sense. To make matters worse, dogs this age undertake some of the same rebellious tendencies seen in human teenagers. There are good evolutionary reasons for this shift: it marks a dog’s independence and ability to exist away from her litter. Still, in the human world, it’s a recipe for disaster—or a serious accident—if she decides to go romping in a busy street or the wrong person’s yard. Consequently, Greg and I agree that, caninaturalism or no, this dog will remain leashed until she graduates from this phase. All three of us hope that commencement day will be very soon.

Tattoo You

Just shy of six months old, the pup is on the cusp of sexual maturity. Although her bones will not fully fuse for another year, Ari is nearly full-grown at 40 pounds. This is half the size we had imagined she would be, and she still doesn’t even get close to filling out her extra-large bed and house. Still, her growing willfulness and desire to distance herself from us outside is a sign that she might be approaching her first estrus cycle. Time to act. The idea of her in a torrid love affair is not at all appealing, nor is the fact that dogs who go through a reproductive cycle are more likely to contract mammarian cancer. I contact the vet’s office yet again, this time to set up an appointment for Ari’s hysterectomy.

When I call, I expect them to schedule the appointment a few weeks away—long enough for us to get comfortable with the idea. But Laurie tells me they have an opening two days later and urges me to take it. I reluctantly agree and am given a list of instructions for the next 48 hours: light meals beginning today, no food the day before, no water beginning at midnight. Any disregard for these rules, Laurie warns, may result in complications during the surgery.

She runs down a list of precautionary questions.

“Is Ari allergic to anesthesia? Does she have any ill effects with it?”

I tell her I have no idea—Ari’s just a healthy kid; we’ve had no cause to sedate her.

“You understand that there are serious risks involved whenever an animal is anesthetized,” she warns. “Some never wake up.”

This is not what I want to hear. We have no choice but to spay Ari. We can only hope that she will be fine.

The night before her surgery, the three of us go for a late walk. For once, I feel no sense of urgency or lingering responsibilities back home. This will be our last caninaturalist outing for a while, and I want it to last as long as possible. I’m more worried about the pup than I let on. I want to do something momentous—just in case.

Electronic pulsing from across our pine grove advertises it’s just the place for such an excursion. The spring peepers (Pseudacris crucifer) got off to a late start in May, so they’re just now winding down with their nocturnal orgies. We walk to the neighborhood fire pond in search of these boisterous frogs. Even in this, the decline of their mating season, the sound is deafening—a single, piercing pitch just out of range of even a coloratura soprano. The din has a throb to it—one that reverberates in my inner ear, sending static all the way down my spine. How must it sound to this wolf-eared dog, already more attuned to volume and pitch? Greg and I take one another’s hand. We have entered an alien landscape and need reminders of that which is familiar.

Donning headlamps, the two humans crouch at the edge of the pond, looking for amorous amphibians. We spy a crayfish and a single, skimming frog. Both glide just above the pond floor, making feathery kicks with each stroke. Ari wades in up to her elbows and stares intently into the water. What’s in there? None of us is sure. The water seems oily in its blackness, reflecting our light and shrouding the pond goings-on in secrecy. Meanwhile, the din of the frogs continues. It is more than deafening. Ari retreats from the water and hangs tight, leaning her shoulder against my leg.

“How many?” Greg asks. His voice is high and forced, capitulating over the peeping. Still, it’s hard to hear.

“What’s that?”

“How many? The frogs. How many of them do you think there are?”

I look up, casting my headlamp into the trees, as if this narrow beam of light might reveal the masses. It doesn’t.

“I don’t know,” I say. “A hundred? Or maybe just a few dozen really loud frogs singing in symphony?”

Try as we might, the three of us can not find more than that one peeper. We duck and weave our way through the brush, peering into cat tails and stands of trees. I am aware that this behavior is highly peculiar—and very much unlike me. It feels exhilarating, though, and I’m proud of us for making the trip if for no other reason than because it is an utterly uncharacteristic thing for me to do. Ari, on the other hand, remains alert and guarded—uncertain why we’re out at night and what is causing this amazing din. She continues to stick close by, venturing only a few steps into the pool before once again attaching herself to my side. If this was to be a celebratory walk in her honor, I’m pretty certain it’s not having the intended effect. She seems relieved when we circle back to the dirt road.

On our way back home, Greg and I crouch beside a much smaller, truly vernal pool—nothing more than a residual puddle, really. There, illuminated by our two headlamp beams, rest hundreds of little gelatinous orbs. Roughly the size of a small marble, they are nearly transparent, save a telltale black dot in the middle of each. Many rest singularly, although we also find much larger, brain-like masses of egg clusters. These are salamander and tree frog eggs, laid to incubate in this joint nursery while their parents return to upland woods and await their delivery.

The three of us return to our own woodland house. Once inside, Ari stands impatiently while I remove her leash, then she trots to the kitchen, awaiting her evening biscuit. We’re too close to her surgery time for a snack, so I shake my head no. She looks confused. When the biscuit tin remains closed, she cycles through the tricks she has learned at school: sit, shake, lie down, bow. Still nothing. She sighs—either frustrated with me or wondering why she is being punished—and makes her way slowly upstairs to bed. A few minutes later, her guilty owner settles in as well.

That night I have strange dreams about plaited bodies and oozing piles of egg sacks overflowing ponds and pools. The next morning, we all arise out of sorts. Ari is hungry and anxious; I am overwhelmed by amphibian reproduction; Greg claims he was repeatedly awakened by a wife executing frog kicks in her sleep; Cam does her usual glowering between pulling tufts of hair. We make a miserable household and try our best to stay out of one another’s way. Ari and I need to be at the vet’s office by 8:00 for her check-in, so we have little time for anything other than a quick walk. Once back inside, she hovers by the spot where her food and water dishes are usually located, still wondering what has prompted this continued ban on food. I give her my best look of empathy and a few long strokes down her back.

At the vet’s office, they’ve seen too many tearful, overwrought goodbyes to allow for much ceremony. Instead, the vet tech takes Ari’s leash from me and ushers her back into the hidden part of the clinic. I ask nervously about her schedule.

“We’re doing three or four today,” Laurie says. “I think Ari’s in the middle. She should be awake by 3:00. You’re welcome to call.”

That morning, I nod my head thoughtfully as students share their perspectives on Robert Frost. I do not hear a single word they say. Instead, I am trying to imagine Ari’s surgery preparation and hoping she is not terrified. After my last class, I race home, forgetting that there is no need for a bathroom break in the yard. Instead, I sit on the kitchen table, staring alternately between the nearby phone and my watch. 2:38. 2:45. 2:49. Time has never moved so slowly.

At 2:52, I phone the vet.

“I’m calling about Ari,” I say as soon as Laurie answers. “How is she?”

“She’s fine. No trouble at all. Just a little groggy.”

“Really?” I want more reassurance.

“Of course. And she’s a doll. She was wagging her tail before she was even fully out of the anesthesia. Everyone thinks she’s a real sweetheart.”

Laurie explains what I have already committed to memory: they will keep her overnight to confirm that there are no ill effects from the medication or the surgery itself. They also need to make sure she does not pull at her stitches, which could ultimately cause her to bleed to death. And, of course, she needs to rest—she is going to be very sore.

Driving over the next day, I become impatient at red lights and drivers observing speed limits. Once at the office, I take my place in the small line of people there to collect their recovering pets. When it’s my turn, the vet tech grins.

“Ari?”
I nod.
“She’s a little ornery sometimes, isn’t she?”
I nod even more enthusiastically. “Why?”
“She’s been trying all day to remove her stitches. We had to put on a restraining device. Don’t worry—she’ll just have to wear it for a day or two. And we added some surgical glue, too. That should make it harder for her to yank them out.”

She goes back to retrieve my dog. When they emerge, Ari seems miserable—a space-aged cone has been tied around her neck with an Ace Bandage. She looks like Astro Jetson. Even worse, she’s lost all sense of physical perspective and promptly bangs the cone into the door jam. This causes her to stop in her tracks and sigh dramatically, lowering her head until the cone thuds against the linoleum. I get the sense this has happened repeatedly on the short walk from the kennels to the reception area. Her technician politely pretends not to notice the tragicomedy of the scene.

As for me, I can only offer my own sigh. “Oh, pup,” I say. “You poor thing.”

Before she can be released, I receive our post-op instructions. We are told to limit her activity and keep her incision clean for a week. I raise my eyebrows at the improbability of either. Are they serious?

“I know,” Laurie says. “It’s going to be hard with this one. Just do your best.”

We struggle our way out the office door and meet our first real challenge at my tiny hatch-back car. When Ari tries to step in, she catches the bottom of the cone on the driver’s seat. When I try to lift her up, we bang it against the roof. A few more tries are equally unsuccessful. Eventually, by cradling her in my arms, I am able to load her like a missile into a payload. We begin our drive home. At each stoplight, people in adjacent cars point and chuckle at my space-age dog. For once, she does not enjoy the attention.

Back home, I call Greg to inform him about the extra-terrestrial presence in our house.

“Oh no,” he laughs. “Poor puppy. Is she embarrassed?”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

By the time he returns two hours later, Ari has not only removed the cone, but hidden it as well. Greg finds me on my hands and knees, trying to fish it out from behind the couch. A groggy but nonetheless triumphant dog looks on from across the room. Using a broomstick, I am eventually able to slide the cone and bandage back out from the couch. Greg tries to reattach it, but the pup scampers away. We are faced with a choice: incite vigorous activity, or take a chance that she can’t bite through the surgical glue. We opt for the latter, though we make a point of checking on her every hour that night. It’s painful to look at her shaved belly.

The incision is bright pink—an angry worm running down her abdomen. She has also been tattooed—a circle and descending cross, the international symbol for woman. Through the circle is a thick X. Semiotic translation? Once a female, but no more. I begin theorizing about gender definitions in contemporary culture. Greg rolls his eyes and, instead, makes jokes about the thick ink, calling Ari a biker chick.