Leash Laws

You wouldn’t know it by seeing him, but my dog , Jasper, has a record. He may not have made post office wall’s status, but his name, along with mine, are out there. And all for what I thought was the most humane of all acts; I let him choose to be at my side…his choice, my voice, no restraint. Jasper. Me. A mountain. A run.
Caught.

Several miles into our venture, a park ranger’s truck blocked our pathway as we descended. Not even questioning our compliance to the law, as I saw we were in abidance of life’s lessons, I called him over to my side. The ranger got out of his truck, yellow pad in hand, and wrote us up. County’s Leash Law. And though it was a fine-free warning, I held the citation in dismay. Why didn’t anyone acknowledge that Jasper was close at my side, that we were enjoying one another within the freedom of choice, nothing binding us but a trusted relationship between two beings that care about one another? No leash, just love. And now on a wanted list.

I am foregoing the fact that the officer did comment on Jasper’s close range, that he was apparently not about to harm any other trail users or critters in the vicinity. That he was well behaved (ha!) and obedient. Still, I had the ticket and the law has our names.

I can accept my lack of adherence to the rules. I have been know to bend them to my favor now and again. But in light of holding something to you, of keeping a being tethered, I would be more inclined to view that as criminal.

An only child of an immigrant mom from Denmark, my mom worked tirelessly to create a life and develop her independence. My grandmother, still overseas in Denmark, was my refuge over the summer. My mom would begin packing me up for my stay as soon as the June school bell rang, and I would spend the three months in Denmark’s tepid summer.  My mom would escort me to Seattle’s International Airport, and then with a long hug and a tearful tear apart, I would board the plane for a 13 hour flight.  I did this for the first time when I was five.

Unaccompanied minors were required to wear a large plastic puch around our necks.  Inside the vinyl was the ticket, passport, a pair of plastic wings and usually a the waxy box of crayons that came with the basic primary colors.  I hated that pouch…the smell and the stiff plastic at my nape.  And lucky for me, my mom pleaded my case.  “Trust me,” she would tell the blue suited stewardesses. “You will know who her grandmother is.  She will go right to her.” This usually afforded me the chance to just keep the pouch nearby if needed.  I didn’t have to actually wear it.

And as my mom stated, we would land and shuffle through customs and the like.  And the doors to my Danish summer would open at the waiting area in the airport, and I would let go of the blue-suited lady’s hand and fly into the arms of my grandmother.  No plastic pouch.  No long lead leash.  Just my knee knocked legs racing towards my grandmother’s open arms.

And  maybe that’s why, after all the years of dirty coops, bobcat invasions, escape artists, and roosters’ cackling in the early dawn, we still have flocks of chickens.  No one tells them to run to my side.  There is nothing, I hope, that identifies me as one of their brood.  Yet every time I approach the chicken wired door, they race to me, feathers in a flurry.  As if just greeting me in that moment is enough to make them cluck with joy.  As if they are happy to just have a moment together while I collect their eggs or fill their water. Nothing requires them to rush to greet me.  They do it because they hope we have a moment together and that the memory of the last time we shared a moment was at least good enough that they would choose to do it again.  And even if it wasn’t filled with corn cobs and watermelon rinds, it was enough.  I was enough.

So, I still chose to have my dog leash less when it safe.  And though he has wandered away for lengths of time that have brought me to my knees in tears.  He returned.  Because he loves me and he knows I love him.  I chose to meet my loved one at the gate, or at least close to it,  so they have arms to fly into and don’t need a plastic pouch to prove it.  And I will continue to add feathered friends to my flock for the mere joy of seeing their sunny side affection. Nothing tethered.

And besides…I don’t think they make leashes for chickens.