The garden, or yard as I had to get used to calling it, was plenty big enough for all four to have a riot. It took a while for Jackson to pick when to pick up or leave the frisbee (or catch it and run off). His gymnastic exploits catching it were all very well but landing on a 160lb German Shepherd with jaws wide wasn’t really advisable. Meanwhile his new step-sister Luna would be chasing the frisbee in her own way, closely marked by Mars the Dane.
I briefly experimented with keeping pairs of dogs apart. Two shepherds, on the few occasions I could get them outside on their own, were great fun, and Luna seemed to appreciate the freedom without the pesky Dane. But on his own or with Jackson, Mars showed there was nothing between his ears but enthusiasm – for what he wasn’t sure, but enthusiasm nonetheless. Throw something, he’d take a few steps and ask ‘what now?’. Trot around the garden and he’d lope alongside but then look for Luna – no one to bark at him, bark at or to drool on. What was the the point?
And the shepherds were so insistent, and evidently newly-addicted to frisbee they hated being inside alone. With them all in the yard, it would take me a good twenty minutes to get all four back inside once I’d had enough of being master to the three ring circus. Vulcan could occasionally be tempted by food, Jackson was pretty obedient but food again was a temptation, Luna would either bark-bark-bark to tell me to carry on, or just sit aloof (I want to be alone) on the step. And finally Mars. Not interested in food, nothing between his ears, a sheep of a dog, there was no getting him in if he didn’t think everyone was going and staying. It was like juggling eels.
But I was becoming part of the pack. Accepted, encouraged even, by the dogs, along with Jackson who was soon becoming attached to his new family members. Things were looking up.
Considering how similar Pennsylvania is to Scotland on the surface, I was starting to notice some subtle differences. The soundtrack sitting out back was different. Birdsong was different, varying from beautiful melody to impressions of a car turning over with a low battery, or a house alarm. All from the trees and not the houses. Squirrels were the grey variety I’d grown up with, but which in Scotland are at best a pest and at worst a threat to the cute and indigenous red squirrels. The garden-yard was full of acorns, and so North American in their size, even if the trees didn’t hold a candle to the sturdy ancient oaks back home. I’d arrived in the springtime, with new flowers and new growth every day, but with those days varying in temperature by a good ten degrees. Then there was the question of which degrees I should be thinking about. Fahrenheit that I could neither fathom nor spell? Celsius that made sense, but only to me with my European tendencies.
Inside the house was just as confusing. F in oven temperatures that I couldn’t C any sense in kept me calculating, three-pin wall sockets for power that were uncharacteristically small by American standards composers to the UK, and a hot and cold water supply that did indeed supply both hot and cold – from both taps, or fawcets. And I was fawcet to brush my teeth at full speed before I had them involuntarily steam-cleaned. At least there was a bath in the bathroom.
The living room was the family room, where family seldom were, and where the dogs were doing most of the living. Every staircase had a stair gate for the dogs to stare up and downstairs, but get nowhere. The shepherds couldn’t budge them, the lab couldn’t bypass them, and the Dane was too daft to simply step over. The kitchen had all mod cons, and delighted in hiding things away, like the refrigerator with hidden doors and drawers, the coded microwave, and the self-cleaning coffee maker with a great sense of timing – waiting for me to sit down before dispensing Americano-scented water to passing pets. Living at an altitude of some 1600 feet also presented its subtle challenges as well. Bread rose and fell, as did my breathing when taking Jackson for a walk. And lights everywhere, with no switch,or three, to control them. All served to keep me awake despite the jet lag, and entertain everyone else as I fumbled my way around a very small part of a very large continent.
Linguistically I had to get my head around such things as garage not rhyming with garbage, finding that not only was there no I in team but that there was no longer a place for ‘me’ in the program and erbs ad evidently lost their h. Considering it’s called the US, there’s a surprising lack of u’s to add color and flavor to the place, too. I was here for a holiday in the first instance, but people kept asking about my vacation and how I was spending the holiday weekend – which incidentally didn’t have a bank holiday after it, and seemed to involve most people working. Stop signs on the road at least made sense, but I felt I should rein in my steed and lower my lance when told to yield at a green light when turning. And red lights evidently mean nothing if you’re turning right. Crossroads are intersections, roundabouts a rarity, and roads are numbered in such a way that directional signs in town can look like three-dimensional sudoku.
So the first few weeks stateside with Jackson, aside from getting used to drive an automatic on the ‘other’ side of the road with wildly secretive speed limits, included taking him for walks in the surrounding countryside – the countryside that wasn’t marked as ‘posted’, meaning ‘no trapping, shooting or otherwise trespassing’ because someone had staked (and paid for) their claim. The scenery was remarkably similar to Scotland, albeit maybe 1000ft higher than we were used to. Following a stream side path on our first foray of an hour or so, Jackson was in his element and maybe a little too adventurous – coming back with the canine equivalent of a skinned knee having decided to jump a little further than his stretch could manage. The trees, rocks and water were such a great playground as long as he stayed on the trail, avoiding sleeping snakes and grumpy rodents.
Daily walks, as spring continued to be sprung, became increasingly green and colourful. Chipper chipmunks scudded across driveways and lawns like little remote control buggies. Sprays of beautiful yellow goldfinches erupted, solitary cardinals in their scarlet finery, and robins (so big they’d make even the British robin less cocky) appeared everywhere showing redbreasts to all and sundry. Swallowtail butterflies increasingly flitted over the flowerbeds. In the course of just 4 or 5 weeks, with a return to the UK getting closer, the Pennsylvania spring had offered weather for swimming, snowmen and slogging in the garden, sometimes all within 24 hours. The trees had gone from bud to bursting out in too many shades of green to count, and the landscape was transforming seemingly hour by hour.
Jackson’s step-brothers and -sister were all revealing their personalities, idiosyncrasies, idiotsyncrasies in the case of the Great Dane. I’d largely managed to bond with them, and a week before leaving I took the plunge to walk the she-boss, Luna. Now, walks with two or even three dogs so far had been riotous affairs, beginning with whines of excitement, yaps building to barks as they egged each other on. Hardly a relaxing stroll, though supposedly good for body and soul.
Then came the epiphany of walking Luna alone. A little understandable excitement initially, at walking one to one, and then half an hour of wonderfully quiet stroll-and-sniff – aside from barking rebukes to the odd neighbour’s dogs that insisted on racing up to the margins of their invisible fence, barking like fury until the ‘field’ had them shush, and then we were gone. Luna and I had come a long way from the nip and nudge that had followed me like a shadow the first few days, Luna was now so often by my side but looking for a play or a cuddle rather than a pound of flesh.
Vulcan too had taken to me, hanging on my every move at times, launching his heavyweight frame onto the bed, and onto me, and actually taking my instructions. He even came between me and a bouncing Jackson on the odd occasion, simply presenting a canine shield with no teeth or claws. Just a gentle reminder of boundaries to respect. Grooming, and the close attention it called for, helped a little with the bonding. And grooming the shepherds as they shed their winter layers was no mean feat. Jackson occasionally gave in to a brush, but little point grooming Mars, with such a thin coat, and that covered by the outsize T-shirt covering and protecting his frame when Miss Luna was putting him in his place.
The only worry, coincidentally just before Jackson was to meet the vet, was actually an altercation with Luna, snapping as he flew to get past, opening a small but significant cut on his side. Jackson was learning the ropes but not getting hung up on the rules of engagement, and he became a good bit more cautious after that. Meeting the vet went as well as expected. Back in Scotland he’d loved every time he crossed the threshold into the surgery, basking in attention, flinching only at the thermometer taking his temperature and his pride.
Eventually he’d have to have his rabies vaccination, something not required back home but a necessary evil if he was likely to meet wildlife on his travels. The vet spoke fondly of the fairy tales heard at vet school of the fabled island of You-Kay where rabies had no hold and injections were optional. But for now, a weigh-in, check-up and head home after cleaning up his cut and a prescription of antibiotics. Interesting to see that, in the USA, the vet is given their due status of Doctor after the years, costs and competition of study. Entry qualifications, schools and so student places are far fewer than for doctors across the US, so the veterinarian is well trained and well-respected having earned their stripes, spots, shades and Subarus.
International-Eyes.org 