Babe, Is That You?

It's a real relief, now that the temperature has plunged, likely for the season, more in keeping with what we anticipate for this time of year. In December, after all, we don't expect the weather to continue to be mild enough that we will receive rain, snow pellets, high winds and freezing rain in lieu of good old winter snow.

But that's what we've been experiencing and it has created great difficulties for people since it invariably results in dreadful driving conditions, conditions as well hazardous to the uninterrupted supply of electrical energy as a result of weather-related uprooting of trees. Since we do have winter weather, those facing power cut-offs also face the fallout of no water, no heat.

So thank heavens, it's become cold. So cold that once again the wooden rafters in the roof have begun their yearly ritual of groaning and creaking and cracking. Not a sound one likes to hear, but that is also part of a Canadian winter. The ground is now nicely frozen, on its way to freezing to winter-depth. Much easier to walk upon in the ravine now that all the muck caused by so much rainfall has been frozen in time.

It's really cold, down to minus 7 celcius, but it'll get much colder as the season gears up. Our little dogs don't yet need their winter boots, but they are clad for the cold. Riley in particular, being the smaller, isn't accustomed to seeing and feeling underfoot the boards on the bridges crusted with ice and snow and he walks slowly, gingerly, across them; he'll learn.

We're halfway through our ravine walk when we see in the distance a familiar sight; at another access point a young woman is in the process of taking her large dog off leash and the dog lunges forward, beside itself with the freedom it has gained. This is Babe, a rescue dog. Of course we knew nothing about her, let alone her name or provenance when we first met her years ago.

"Met" is kind of generous; she came up silently behind us on a cold, snowy winter day in the ravine and we heard, before we saw, a snarling, menacing, continuous growl that leapt into the air around us, enveloping us in its surprise quotient, rising in tempo and making the hairs curl on our neck with dire forboding before we even managed to turn about to confront this terrifying animal.

There she stood, large, dominant, daring us to confront her. A dark brown-red, we identified her as a Rhodesian Ridgeback, and that put fear into us for the well being of our two little dogs both of whom we lunged for, to place them in the safety of our sheltering arms. As though satisfied with herself, Babe turned and ran back the way she had come.

This type of thing happened now and again, and each time we heard that low rumbling snarl capped off by a series of loud clapping barks of warning (don't mess with me!) the same dread descended upon us, the same reaction of leaping to protect our little dogs. Then we met Babe's owner, a pretty, slight, black-haired young woman who apologized for her dog's manner, going to great lengths to try to assure us she was all bark, no bite.

She just couldn't bear to leash Babe in the ravine, wanted to give her the feeling of freedom. Babe had been abused and was really a loving, protective and, believe it or not, fearful dog. Her intitial response on confronting those unfamiliar to her was to snarl, bark, back off, hackles rigid. She knows us now, and we're accustomed to her. We trust her elemental good nature, hidden under her protective carapace of bravado.

So who did we come across, after walking some distance in company with Babe and her mistress? Why, another, older, sturdily-built woman who regularly walks two dogs; a golden retriever and a black Labrador. The same black Lab that once was barely arrested in the process of attacking our meek little black poodle. Whose snarl really does mean what it portends.

Both Babe and the black Lab were off leash, and each was considerably ahead. They picked up pace as they neared one another, while their respective owners called them back, just as they ignored the commands to return. They stood, nose to nose, sniffing, each tail, wagging companionably, widely, side to side. The black Lab's owner reached him first and leashed him. Babe's owner then leashed her, too.

As we passed, I commented, smiling in comisseration "tricky situation". "Not my dog at fault!" huffed the black Lab's owner, casting a dirty glance at Babe's owner, while I rolled my eyes.