Musing: Walking Catastrophe

How much chaos can come from the simple morning task of walking the dogs? As someone who regularly shepherds three Siberian Huskies, I should know better than tempting fate with such questions. As regular readers, you’re glad I’ve never learned.

Normally, our twice-daily strolls follow our neighborhood greenway. A creek’s gentle gurgle drowns out the suburban symphony of passing cars and the shriek of leaf blowers. It’s our slice of wilderness in the city, complete with familiar faces (both human and canine) and even the occasional mountain lion sighting.

Mix in a storm-related trail closure, morning school rush, and various interlopers, though, and the answer turns into a walking catastrophe.

Unfortunately, Hurricane Helene wreaked havoc on our tranquil trail, toppling trees and mangling footbridges. Volunteers cleared all but the biggest fallen trees from the path itself. Professional crews start work later this week, removing the remainder and tackling the numerous trees leaning precariously. Only a little rain and wind would cause them to crash to the ground, so, for our safety, the trails are officially closed.

But with the trail largely passable, even with a few hurdles, it’s popular with walkers and joggers, despite the official no-go decree.

Not us, of course. Oh, never would we even consider breaking the rules. Besides, Frankie, our distinguished senior at fifteen-years old, would look at one of the massive trunks blocking our path and say, “I’m too old for that nonsense, human.” Not that we—once again, I must emphasize—would violate an official order and trek the forbidden..

No, instead, for our safety, we’ve taken to the narrow neighborhood streets, roads that lack any sidewalks. Enormous piles of storm debris created impromptu single-lane mazes. Huge grapple trucks park haphazardly while their mighty claws dig through the stacks and extract logs and branches. A steady stream of construction workers, more focused on upcoming repairs than wayward dog walkers, pilot their pickups and vans.

If that wasn’t enough of a challenge, these roads are used as cut-throughs for parents dropping their kids off at one of the four neighborhood schools. Of course, these parents love their precious little darlings, but they sure seem to be in quite the hurry to unload them.

Fortunately, our live-action version of the Frogger video game results in a tangible reward, an actual, but narrow, sidewalk running along the side of a major two-lane road teeming with even more school traffic, buses, and commuters.

And that’s where everything fell apart.

Coming in the opposite direction was a neighbor walking her dog. The neighbor reacts warmly when she sees us. The dog not so much. He accused us of violating some canine code of sidewalk conduct, namely interfering with his use of it.

Being the accommodating sort, we stepped aside to the only available space: the entrance to our forbidden greenway. The thick woods offered perfect cover for our minor transgression.

And that’s when our little tale went off the rails.

Let me introduce our next character: a cat, regally positioned in the middle of the road, bringing school traffic to a complete standstill. This feline traffic controller, a stranger to us, seemed oblivious to the cars stacking up, filled with kids eager to get to school and parents equally eager to get them there.

Now why is a cat ensconced in the street? Unfortunately, he didn’t explain. We could have avoided so much if he had only clarified his quandary.

A helpful human suggested the feline find a better perch. The emphatic answer was no, expressed with a meow that was decidedly not a family-friendly reply. The human escalated the matter by stepping forward and chasing. Kitty, sensing a pending violation of the no-touching rule, vamoosed into the woods beside us.

Problem solved? Right?

Not exactly.

What none of us knew was that the cat—who I shall refer to as Cat #1 in a foreshadowing of what happens next—was glaring at a second cat in the bushes. In case you have any doubts, let me clarify that this was not a budding feline friendship. We had stumbled upon a territorial dispute. Deep in the shadows of the woods, a “discussion” ensued.

Now, I’m quite fluent in Siberian Husky. I’ve been known, as many a neighbor can attest, to have lengthy conversations with certain warbling and wooing fur buckets who attempt to explain for the eleventy-seven bazillionth time that they do not have to do what I say. I said I was fluent, not persuasive.

Unfortunately, my grasp of cat dialect is lacking, so I might have missed some nuance. To my unpracticed ear, the hisses and howls sounded suspiciously like a suggestion of extraterrestrial relocation options. Like Mars may not be quite far enough.

Cat #2, thus far only heard and not seen, opted for a strategic withdrawal. I know this because his chosen escape route couldn’t have been a worse option. Not for him. Certainly not for me. He raced through the woods and emerged onto the path—directly in front of two humans holding three Siberian Huskies.

Based on the look on his face, he appeared to understand his terrible morning had just become much worse. Kitty brain imagined he had just waltzed into the middle of a wolf pack.

My dogs, already intrigued by the sounds from the forest, were equally startled by the cat’s appearance. Between the three of them, the reactions ranged the whole gamut.

Best present ever!

Evacuate! Evacuate!

Do we get treats for this?

My apologies, Dear Reader, I’m a little hazy about what transpired over the next few seconds. Vaguely, I recall much yelling, screaming, and shrieks. And that was just the dogs and cats. We humans probably added something on top of that.

Fortunately, Cat #2 opted to restart his day somewhere else. Anywhere else. Cat #1, satisfied with the eviction of his foe, maintained a diplomatic distance. My furry choir eventually ceased their enthusiastic commentary. I’m happy to report no felines or canines were harmed, though a few human egos were bruised.

But this reminds me of another safety feature of our greenway. At least there, our chaos isn’t for public consumption. I need only close my eyes to resurrect the vision of those kids’ faces pressed against the windows of their stopped vehicles, gawking at the circus that had come to town.