Change is Just Up the Road

“I hate routine, but I fear change.”

Those are the words of my friend who, after 13 years of living in the same place, has moved. He was saying how his brain has rebelled against the fact that this is his new place, and that eventually (once escrow closes), he will never return to the place he called home for so long.

I wonder if some dogs know on that fateful ride to the shelter, if indeed they, too, will never see their home again. Or, if being the loving, trusting souls they are, their brain and heart rebel against the reality until the very last moment. And then, alone behind bars, there is nothing but fear and the others left behind to give them comfort.

I am always astonished by a canine’s willingness to trust me—to put his or her life in my hands, and just go with the flow. But some dogs are more sensitive than others. Having had Lulu for so long with her above-average coping ability, I forgot that some dogs need a little extra reassurance, and that they sense life-change coming from hundreds of miles away.

Callie slept through the night without awakening as she had every night previous. However, the little sniffle that I had noticed the first day and had faded with the second, had returned like a Nor’easter. Her bed had a giant snot mark on it, and I could hear the congestion with each breath she took. I had to get her to the rescue as quickly as possible, where meds awaited her, and the stress of traveling would finally end.

Callie was not a model passenger on this last leg and certainly could not co-pilot. She didn’t want to sit down from the moment we got into the car. When I stopped at a Dutch Bros. Coffee just across the street, she leaned through my driver side window and refused to sit back down, backing up the drive-thru by ten cars.

On the road, she needed me. She continually grabbed by arm. I had to be petting her or holding her at any given moment. My telling her that she was going to get us in an accident if she kept standing up or pulling on me elicited no response. She was well past the boundary of comprehension and deep into fear or sickness.

My mocha went cold as I pet her non-stop for the first hundred miles. She cried and whimpered. If I didn’t pet her, she needed her head on my arm.

I finally got to sip some caffeine when she fell asleep with her head on my lap.

Callie was going to stay with Cheryl, who runs My Way Home, until Saturday when her foster parents would be ready for her. The foster parents were excited, as they had two large senior dogs of their own, and they always ended up fostering little dogs. They were looking forward to having a shepherd join their pack for a bit while she awaited her forever home.

I never did get to meet Cheryl’s own dogs, as they were in a separate part of the house. I met her rescues, an old pit who had to stay in the crate because he, like Missy, didn’t have the best social skills. He was a sweet guy, but got a little too ramped up when he met a new dog, so she was going to wait till all was calm for the two of them to meet without bars between them. There was a little terrier who I just adored. He clearly had the hots for Cheryl. Maybe it goes back to my Harry days, but I love the spunk that is purely and innately terrier. Then there was the two remaining of the feral pack she had taken in. Cheryl had never touched them—except when they got spayed and were under anesthesia. They were great with other dogs, but they didn’t trust humans.

This one on the bed is ridiculously adorable, but has never been touched by human hands. I thought that was a boa around her neck, but Cheryl informed that it was actually her collar. The other dogs were so repulsed by it, they tried to rip it off her. The end result is this decorative band of pink, and since no human can touch her, she’s stuck with the bling.

I had no doubt that Callie would be fine here—and at her foster home. But she was still panting and unsure.

“She’s a sensitive soul,” Cheryl said. Callie was upset with the other dog energy in the room—the romping and playing that she hadn’t been invited to partake in. It was new to her, and she preferred calmness. Her bad eyesight might have also lent to her preference for stillness—like on Mt. Shasta.

She seemed at ease for a bit as Cheryl and I swapped dog tales. I started telling her about Stella, and Callie rose up and started whimpering. I wasn’t telling it in a dramatic way. I was simply telling the facts.

“She feels the pain in your heart,” Cheryl said simply.

I looked at Callie who was sitting and  nudging my hand with her nose, whimpering at me.

All dogs are empathic; I have no doubt. But some are more so than others. Callie is one of those. She feels everything. “Latisma” is the Spanish word Katya would use—the ability to pity and have compassion for everything. Callie has latisma.

Four hours after I had arrived, Callie was fast asleep, using my shoe as her pillow. I knew it was okay to cut the apron strings. She’d be okay.

Indeed she was more than okay. By the end of the weekend, as I was about to embark on my southern journey (sans dogs, sadly), I received these pictures from Cheryl.

Change is scary. But it can lead to tremendous good things. Callie, I thank you for coming with me on my northward adventure. I hope you had fun. I thought you were living the good life on Mt. Shasta, but then I see you here on 50 acres… and the thing is, you still haven’t made it home yet. From a shelter in Riverside County, California, to the mountains of Northern California, to the farmland of Oregon to… the future is unplanned. But, Callie, my dear, by not planning, I can guarantee that beautiful, magical surprises are just around the corner.

From Shelter to Shasta

Living life without a plan means you can miss out on some things. But it also means that you get to experience some unexpected pleasures along the way. Going to Mt. Shasta was one of my planned things, whether or not I had a dog with me. I found out that if I had a dog, I was limited to only two of the many trails, but that would be enough for one day’s experience anyway. The only thing that could stop me then was the US government.

Luckily, upon arriving to the first trailhead in the National Forest, I found out that despite all its power, the United States government could not close nature, but only the facilities we’ve come to take for granted when in it.

And I also assume it was a bad idea to get lost at this time since there weren’t any rangers to get you out of precarious or life-threatening situations in the outback.

So, with nothing really to hinder us, Callie and I trekked to the very top that my trusty steed could go. Dogs live in the moment, and so I don’t imagine Callie compares this day with say, last week, when she was on death row. But we as humans do. And so, as I took this picture, I thought of all the possible futures that Callie had just a week prior, and I honestly didn’t imagine this one.

There were no trail maps. I assume because facilities were closed, although I couldn’t find an empty spot for them anywhere near the facilities. The US Department of Forestry’s website was also shut down, so that was of no use prior to my expedition. I only found out which trails were dog friendly by reading citizens’ accounts on private webpages.

Callie and I found Panther Meadows trailhead simply by being observant and using my memory of the giant map at the first stop. It appears the sign was made in 1969.

Mt. Shasta is known amongst many as a spiritual, healing mountain. Gurus, mystics, and sages make pilgrimages here. It is one of the seven sacred mountains in the world.

The night before, I spied its beauty and majesty in the dark. Always snowcapped, I seemed to always see it out of the corner of my eye, but never when I looked directly at it—a ghost mountain in the distance. In the morning light, the ghost took solid form, and was still just as majestic.

If indeed a dog shitting somewhere means they’re comfortable, than Callie instantly found peace on the mountain. Not more than fifty feet into our hike, she took a dump. It was nice for it happen so quickly, so I could we could wander the campsite area for disposal.

The trail was marked by stones on either side of a foot-wide path. But once the trail came up over a ridge and onto the meadow, it became this:

Callie and I meandered, as I tried to figure out which stones indicted the trail. I saw a woman sitting beneath a tree, head lowered, eyes closed, deep in meditation. I tried to steer Callie clear of her, but once Callie spied her, she wanted to greet her. As we came closer, I saw that she was holding a large crystal, something bigger than the Riverside Shakespeare Collection, and had a tattoo on her face, and on her arms. My clod-like walking and Callie’s breathing alerted her to visitors.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt,” I said politely.

“I’m already interrupted,” she said with a sigh.

Callie came right up to her and licked her face. The woman smiled. “Black dogs are my protectors. It’s interesting that she came to me.”

She pet her, and I asked if she new where the trail went.

“Well, you’re here,” she said rather snyly.

I continued, “I was just trying to find it. I lost it when I came into the meadow.”

“Well, the New Age answer is ‘you have to feel it.’”

Great. A wise-ass healer.

“Thanks,” I replied, trying not to roll my eyes or see that her attitude had gotten to me. We had, afterall, interrupted her healing meditation.

Callie and I wandered off in the wrong direction for a short spell, but then from that perspective, I found where the trail picked up again.

I let Callie choose our speed. I didn’t know what her fitness level was as a nine-year old dog, but I knew my fitness level as a 35 year old woman didn’t include carrying a seventy pound dog a mile and a half to a car, so I erred on the side of the caution.

Mt. Shasta does have a certain energy about it; a calmness, a stillness. And each time the wind arose, I felt the need to stand still and allow it to pass as if it was a king or queen in which to give reverence. Callie and I spent more time just being than walking.

Sometimes we stood, sometimes it was Callie who chose to lay down for a moment; sometimes it was I who chose to sit. At one point I thought Callie had gone as far as she could and wanted to, but when another group of hikers passed us, Callie followed for a short spell.

A few hours into our mountain experience, Callie did a distinct about-face on the trail, and I knew this was as far as we were going. I was fine with that. Had I been alone, I would have gone further. But I was more than pleased with where Callie had led us. We took our time on the way back down, soaking in all that beautiful, calm stillness, and trying to imbue it into our souls.

Once off the mountain and back in civilzation, there wasn’t much for a girl and her dog to do in the tiny mountain town of Mt. Shasta, so we headed north.

If we headed straight up I-5 without stopping, we’d be way ahead schedule. I had told Cheryl, Callie’s rescuer, that we’d arrive on Thursday morning. It was only Tuesday afternoon, and we had only six hours of driving left.

I had thought of spending the night in Grants Pass, Oregon. I am a mountain-girl, not a lowlands woman, and so any time I can be high in the forest, I’ll take it. And it would be a decent drive to get us into Sandy, Oregon, Callie’s destination, Thursday morning.

After passing Ashland, Oregon, another place I had thought of visiting but upon reaching it, just wasn’t feeling it (I guess I was going with the New Age way of finding my path), I saw a sign for “Rogue-Umpqua Scenic Byway.”

Oh, a byway. That’s sounds interesting. I don’t imagine it’ll take us more than an hour or two off course, and dump up back onto I5. So I impulsively took the exit.

Forty-five minutes later, I found a sign that gave the map of this “byway.”

Well, it’s a bit more than an hour. But that’s okay. We had plenty of time. My only rule of the road was that we find a place of lodging at nightfall. Not for safety-sake, but simply because I was taking this drive to see things, which I needed sunlight to do so.

Callie got her first taste of Oregon here—literally. She walked right into the Rogue River without a second thought, and began lapping up the water.

I hoped it was safe to drink. It seemed fast-enough moving to not harbor too much bacteria. She didn’t feel like going for a swim, but it was clear that wet paws didn’t bother her one bit.

On our driving tour that took us close to Crater Lake, we stopped only a few times. Callie still had some issues getting in and out of the vehicle. She had made an attempt in the morning at the motel, lost her footing, and fell. Since then, she had lost a bit of confidence.

Callie came with me to see the rapids of the Rogue River, walked a couple of bridges, and saw the waterfalls.

For her first time being a co-pilot and being dragged along on my adventures, I think Callie did wonderfully well.

At the end of our three-hour tangent, I discovered that we by-passed Grants Pass by about a hundred miles. I thought maybe we could stay in the town at the very end of our byway, but spending only a few minutes in the town, I opted to leave. It just didn’t have a good vibe about it.

Twenty miles north, we stopped at a place that I had a much better feeling about. So much so, that the parking lot I stopped in to call for hotels was the parking lot for the hotel I chose for the night.

I acquired food from the next door diner that I could walk to, and I discovered that Callie already had much of that peace and stillness of Mt.Shasta in her. When I returned from getting food, she was cozy and calm on her bed. She was a fantastic traveling companion. I didn’t worry about her soiling the sheets or barking when I left. She was an old, wise woman, and was content right where she was on the journey (even if the bed was a tad too small.)