The Things Echo Knows

Thursday, January 31, 2013

The Things Echo Knows

The sound of a zipper can wake her from the dead. The tinkle of a belt buckle, too. While I change clothes she's certain that she must stand within six inches of me, and she often plays it safe by putting the top of her head against my leg.
She knows my ski clothes by sight and smell. If I simply open the duffel bag she comes to investigate.
If I have occasion to be at my mom's house, Echo knows that if I disappear into the back bedroom, that she must stand sentry at the door until I emerge. No amount of time is too long. Then she stands within six inches of me, often with the top of her head against my leg.
Anytime I appear at my mom's house, in fact, Echo comes to greet me with a look that is nothing less than beseeching. She would be ashamed to beg for food or tummy scratches with the same abandon that she begs to be taken skiing.
If its cold, or there is fresh snow to clump up in her paws, then I pick up her booties and call her over. When she sees the booties she puts her tail in between her legs and begins to circle with the same look on her face that she gets when she's in trouble. But she comes over, and sometimes even graciously raises a paw to have the booties put on. She knows that this is the hate of the love/hate relationship, but that the love comes later.
Once her booties are on, she freezes. Moving only to stay within six inches of me, and filling herself with hate with each moment that I spend adjusting layers, putting on my own boots, or corking the wax into my skis.
Only once she begins to hear the gentle skoosh of my skis down the trail does she relax, the nervous tension gone from her demeanor. The stunted movement brought on by the booties disappears as she tears off down the trail, finally free from the prison of wondering if this time she might be left behind. After this, the only sign that she's even happy is the gentle swish of her tail as she trots ahead down the trail. But that swish means a lot.