Our stars, ourselves, our dogs — unleashed

The following was first published in the Albany Times-Union.

By Felix Carroll

A waning crescent moon casts dull light as if powered by nearly dead batteries — barely enough light to make heads or tails of the two heads and one tail toiling along the frozen, deep-rutted roadside at 10 p.m. on a week night.

It's a quiet, ancient evening, and crude words about bowel movements would seem a violation of something sacred. But here goes nothing:

"Come on: Poop!"

The command translates into cold puffs of disintegrating vapor. If ash trees could say "Shhh!" they would. But they can't, which is good because I'm in no mood for sanctimonious trees.

The tail belongs to a dog that presumably has to poop, but won't. Or can't. He's befuddled. We both are. This is new to us — these leashed excursions along the guardrail by our house. There are no sidewalks around these parts. And not enough streetlights to land a nocturnal housefly.

Here we are, the two of us. Until two weeks ago, he was a dog we could let out untethered. He'd do what he does, and he'd come back when called. For reasons maybe only the whispers of an ancient evening can explain, he has taken to running from home and not returning on his own recognizance.

"Just poop and be done with it!"

It's cold. Really cold. An all-star cast of constellations has arranged itself like Christmas lights entangled in the shrubbery of the cosmos. Look at all that — this huge, magnificent, expanding universe, speeding silently into the unknown and unknowable. We're but a fleck of a flick, aren't we?  What does it all mean? How did it all begin?

Excuse me for a second.

"Go poop!"

Up until a mere two weeks ago, he could be relied upon to stay put on the property. He'd snooze on the front porch. Or chew a stick on the hill. Or admire earlier bowel movements. He'd exercise himself by doing laps around the house. Or not. He was there, within the boundaries, without us having to think twice. He'd push himself up with an oomph and set himself back down with a harrumph.

But last week I found myself tracing his paw prints through the snow, over a creek, into the yard of a cop who has "No Trespassing" signs posted. My tracks backtracked from there. We cased the roads by car. I found him trotting on Main Road heading east. He had a crazy grin.

Jeez, will you look at that sky. You can see the Milky Way. String theorists believe there is more than one universe. Did you know that? What the heck does that mean?

Pardon me again:

"Come on: Just poop! Concentrate!"

He's sniffing. That's what he does. He reads the world through the Braille of odor. He could sniff the varnish off an antique chest.

He was born to an abandoned mother somewhere down in Tennessee. Through a dog rescue outfit, Santa Claus brought him north three years ago and gave him to our boy for Christmas. His name is Gunther (the dog, not the boy). He's calico-colored and funny looking. He looks at us with love and gratitude (again, the dog not the boy). If it weren't for us, he'd still be in Tennessee, probably lurking around a Waffle House and barking in a Southern accent. You cannot explain this to him.

Despite all the stupid things I've done throughout the years — the time wasted, the wrong turns taken, the false starts — I'm a family man now. If I could only make the dog understand how good he and I have it, how life only gets worse beyond these boundary lines. There's food here. Lovely people. Warm beds. Decent views. Historically low 30-year-fixed interest rates. All I need him to do is to lay unleashed on the front porch like a paperweight helping me keep it all from blowing away.

Jeez, thank the Lord above for engineered, moisture-resistant breathable fabrics. It's cold out here. Funny thing: In ancient times, if Santa brought me a dog for Christmas, it would be for one purpose only: skinning him and wearing him. And I look good in calico. You cannot explain that to Gunther. I’ve tried.

"Poop! Now!"

"Just a sec," he says. "I'm in the middle of something."

When he finally gets into the kangaroo position to do his thing, he looks at me, humiliated. We're both humiliated.  

"Ya moron," I say, looking the other way.

If there was a Big Bang, what existed before the Big Bang? And did ancient man ever wish upon a star? He discovered fire. He manipulated steel. He tamed the earth and planted crops. If he wished upon a star, at what point did he realize he could wish for three more wishes?

But that's the problem, isn't it? We want more than what we've got. We cross boundaries. We trespass. 

The dog is tangled in the leash now. The stars are tangled in the cosmos. The universe is expanding, and if there's a boundary somewhere out there, then what's on the other side of that boundary? For reasons only an ancient evening could explain, we're pulled, always and everywhere. And there isn't a dog fence strong enough.