9:45, Monday, August 28, 2017

The adventure is truly beginning now.  I got in late Thursday night, so Sam and I slept in the box with just the battery electricity to light us.  Of course, because it wasn’t cold and all we were doing, after taking a walk and letting each of us pee under a starlit sky, was going to bed, the previous sentence is simply a plea for . . . what?  Pity?  No, pity is way too strong a word.  Sympathy?  Closer, but still too whiny for what I mean.  Identification?  That’s the word, or at least it’s a word.

Friday, Saturday and Sunday were devoted to settling in—long walks with Sam, getting to know the neighbors—Jay and Judy next door in a beautiful two-floor log cabin that, until Saturday, I’d assumed was NEVER inhabited, and Gail and Boone at the end of the dirt road.  Gail is in her late sixties, a widow who shares her house with a nameless cat and Boone, a large black dog with some bits of retriever and who knows what else.  Boone, unfortunately, is the bane of the neighborhood, a two year old who runs the road, chases cars and responds to no one and nothing.

Saturday afternoon, while Sam and I were heading out for a couple-mile walk, Boone appeared at the end of his driveway.  Because he was leashless, a free-range dog, I didn’t want Sam to feel he had to protect me from Boone.  I took Sam’s leash off, the two sniffed each other for about 12 seconds, then took off to play grab ass for the next 90 minutes until they were both completely exhausted.  I found myself laughing out loud as they wrassled and counted coup on each other’s necks.  Boone has about four inches and 15 pounds on Sam, so the fight was never even.  Still, Sam gave as good as he got and seems to be learning how to “fight” as an underdog.  I can see the seeds of a great dog in him.  Just as all men marry above themselves, no man deserves the dog he gets.

Sunday was church day with no church.  I’d planned on meeting some local folks there, but worship starts early here and I was still filling my mouth with sausage and eggs at 8:30 when the local faithful gathered.  Next week, then.

A note on life at Tiny White Box.  I’m located on the grounds of Warriors at 45 North, a hunting and fishing retreat for veterans.  Right now, two staff members are here, but they’ll be leaving Wednesday to go to the Lancaster Fair.  When staff is here, Ray Booska, who lives down in Colebrook, comes up and cooks a fine, tasty and completely unhealthy breakfast, and makes sure food is ready for the rest of the day.  A man would be happy with Ray’s food forever.  Also very fat, at least if that man ate with my vigor.  Safely for me, for most of the winter I’ll be living on oatmeal and canned fruit.