How Now, Brown Cao Mau

When we first bought the property in Belas we were delighted by the idea that Jake would have a sizable place to ramble. Living in an apartment in San Francisco was no hardship - it was large and on the edge of a national park. We could walk to the beach and two different dog parks in 15 minutes. For the decade we lived there Jake had all the exercise he could ask for, plus regular trips to Tahoe to swim in alpine lakes and run in the snow.

But all of those activities required a human for Jake to access. And though we did our best to keep Jake active, he always wanted more. Even if I took him for a five mile walk he paused at the foot of the steps leading to our apartment and would point his nose down the street, his meaning clear: Let’s go to the shops! Sacramento Street was a block away and a few of the proprietors could be counted on for dog biscuits.

You are never satisfied! I would scold. Jake wagged.

A property of five plus acres would give him space to roam without any danger of cars or coyotes (endemic in San Francisco). He would have that rare combination of freedom and safety. How ideal, or so we thought.

Ha. You know what they say - be careful what you wish for.

In the last three days we’ve lost Jake three times. Or more specifically, Jake lost himself, very deliberately I might add. As I write this he lays a few feet away snoozing innocently and I am torn between wanting to run over and smother him with hugs and waking him up to scold him.

On Monday, the h and I were working on plantings in the garden and the front yard. Jake lay in the courtyard for awhile, then ambled up the steps leading to the garden. I glanced up to see him peering through the door at the h, and continued my work. A half hour later our neighbor Alberto stopped by with some more plants.

Do you want to go to the nursery with me? he asked. It’s a good time to plant trees.

Sure, we said, and I looked around for Jake. It was odd that he hadn’t galloped up to greet Alberto, they are already old friends.

Where’s Jake? I asked the h.

I haven’t seen him, the h said. I thought he was with you.

No, he went up to the garden awhile ago, I said.

Nope, the h said. Haven’t seen him all morning.

But he was on the steps! I said.

Well he must have kept going to the top, the h said. I never saw him.

That was more than a half hour ago, I said. I ran into the house, checking all of the usual napping locations. No Jake.

Back outside I whistled, but no brown shape came into view.

The h whistled, a shorter, sharper sound than my two-note, high/low whistle, that always brings Jake running. But not this time.

The h walked up the road to the guest house (aka the Quinta), repeating the whistle every few steps. Suddenly I remembered the well the h had uncovered at the top of the property to the left of the cottage. Though uncovered maybe isn’t the right word; as he was chainsawing through thick bramble he felt the ground beneath him suddenly give way - he’d been standing on the hidden, rotting wooden cap to the well we’d known was somewhere on the property but had no idea where. Luckily he did not have his full weight on the cap when it gave way, so did not fall through. We pointed it out to the gardener and didn’t think about it again, forgetting that with the road now cleared of brambles and fallen trees the area had become easily accessible to a curious dog whose eighty pounds could easily crash through the remains of what was left of the well cover.

I flew up the steps to the cottage, shouting for Jake. The well cover was intact, no gaping hole like a mouth in the ground visible.

I searched the cottage, the upper fruit orchard, the cottage garden - no Jake caught in the piles of chicken wire or heaps of boards with rusty nails protruding, no Jake in the brambly thicket holding a paw pathetically in the air, waiting for someone to remove a thorn or shard of glass.

I climbed the stone steps to the upper part of the property, what the h and I call the Back 40, a place that is mostly fields of dead thistle dotted by huge trees, with footpaths that wind around through a fallen wall to a public walkway, or down to an empty lot full of various construction materials we inherited with the land. The lot is fenced but there are gaps a dog could easily pass through. I ran down first one path then the other, calling and whistling, my voice bouncing off the nearby apartment buildings; a man jogging up the public walkway glanced over at me. But no Jake.

Anything? I texted the h, fully expecting a picture of a grinning Jake as a response.

Nothing, came the reply.

I calculated that he’d been missing at least an hour by this point.

Jaaaake! I shouted. I climbed up a crumbling wall that gave me a full view of the wild acres but there was no movement, no brown dog parting the brown thistle.

Our morning walk route includes the public walkway, which winds down to a busy street. I ran down the walk, trying to push the mental picture of a dog lying in the street between stopped cars from my mind, but panic was setting in. Not so long ago Jake narrowly avoided being crushed by a car in a crosswalk; for a moment, when his brown back disappeared beneath the car’s hood, I felt my heart hollow out within me and a blackness fall over my vision. and though people rushed into the street at the sound of the h bouncing off the hood and my sudden scream, I heard nothing for a moment, the world went silent. Noise and color only filtered back when Jake nosed my arm, somehow having escaped what seemed his certain death.

But when I reached the street there was no stopped traffic, and no Jake. I turned left, following the route of our daily walk, running awkwardly in my Carhaarts with my knee pads still strapped on, mud flying in chunks from my garden boots, tears streaming down my face. A line of cars stopped at the one light on the street and I saw faces turned toward me, curious.

As I came within sight of our property I saw Alberto at our gate.

Ele está aí? Jake está aí? I called, feigning calm. He looked up the driveway then back at me, shaking his head.

I ran across the street without looking at traffic and he held up his hands, shouting. Cars screeched to a stop.

You not find? he asked.

I shook my head, unable to speak, and ran through the gate and up the driveway. The h met me halfway.

I haven’t found him, he started to say, and at that exact moment, as my heart sank down to my shoes, Jake appeared at the top of the cottage steps.

We didn’t yell at Jake or even scold him. After all, I told the h, I promised him a walk. When it didn’t happen he got tired of waiting and took himself for a walk. So cute. All’s well that ends well, we said.

The next day while the h built nesting boxes and roosts for the coop I headed to the Quinta to clean. After an hour the h appeared, ready for lunch.

Where’s Jake? I asked.

I thought he was with you, the h said.

The last time I saw him was in the house, I said.

This time it was forty-five minutes before we found him. Or rather, before Jake strolled up, seemingly out of nowhere, while we were convening after searching the entire property, calling and whistling.

Where have you been?! we demanded. Jake wagged. We were puzzled - how could we have missed him after splitting up and covering the whole property?

The third time it happened I was mad. I can’t keep going through this! I complained. Even as I said it I knew what I was doing - bargaining with the universe. If I acted annoyed it would just be an annoyance, and nothing more. Jake would turn up, wagging.

He’s gonna get it, I told the h as I trudged up the cottage steps.

I know, the h agreed.

An hour later as darkness fell I was crying, calling for Jake so loud my voice would be cracked and hoarse that night. As I once again ran the public walkway, rain began to fall. Cars zipped past, splashing the narrow sidewalks, headlights reflecting on the wet pavement. As I ran up the driveway I told myself, he’ll appear, just like last time, and prepared myself to feel relieved.

He’s not here, the h said. We had to shout to be heard over the rain.

Did you check the back 40? I cried.

All of it, the h said.

Check the koi pond, check the side garden, I yelled and ran back up the cottage steps, strapping my headlamp on. The sound of the h’s unanswered whistle filled me with dread. It was really real, I thought. Jake was actually missing. I started crying, even while yelling at myself that crying wouldn’t help me find him.

I checked the well cap, cursing myself for not barricading it, but it was intact. I ran into and around the cottage, filled with the dangerous detritus of a caved-in roof, standing still to listen for a whimper or groan. Why hadn’t we installed a door, preventing entry? The fact of what I was doing scared me worse and I cried harder.

I ran back and forth through the waist high thistle, calling. My clothes became heavy with rain. Oh God, I cried. Please, I screamed. But Jake did not appear.

I ran the whole loop again, down the walkway, across the busy street, back to the house. The h came out to meet me.

Don’t you have your phone? He’s here, I have him.

Like before, Jake had not been found so much as reappeared from wherever he had been. This time, the h reproached him at length.

I was glad to see Jake of course; glad isn’t even the right word, not even in the neighborhood of the right word. But I’d let myself become so frightened I found I couldn’t look at him; my emotions were all over the place. Relief mixed with rage.

He’s going to be on a leash FROM NOW ON, I shouted at the h.

Ok, said the h.

I THOUGHT HE WAS SMART BUT HES NOT, I yelled.

Ok, said the h.

HE DOESN’T LOVE US, I sobbed. HE DOESN’T CARE!

Hear that, Jake? the h said.

Jake’s tail drooped.

HE’S M-M-MEAN AND UNGRATEFUL, I shouted, knowing even as I said it how stupid I sounded.

Later, Jake nosed me as I sat on the couch, still sniveling.

NOT GOOD, I told him. He watched me, ears down.

You are a cao mau (bad dog), I said. I didn’t have the heart to say it in English which made me mad all over again. I wanted to hug him and kiss him but I also couldn’t bear to look at him. What the heck was going on? Later when I posed this question to the h he kindly said, Well you just lost your dad and had a near miss with your mom. Love hurts.

As I stared at Jake, my eyes tearing up and challenging, he simply held my gaze, his golden eyes steady. Seconds ticked by, then minutes. I looked at him, unsmiling. Staring directly into a dog’s eyes is almost universally considered aggression, but Jake never dropped his gaze.

Don’t ever, ever do that again, I said quietly.

The very tip of his tail wagged.

Do you understand? I asked, in my most severe voice.

His tail thumped.

I lay down next to him on the sectional couch, my back to him. After awhile, I felt the soft pressure of his brown chin on my waist.

I’m sorry I yelled, I whispered, my hand on his head. You’re a good boy. The best.

We stayed like that for awhile. Eventually he started to snore.

All’s well that ends well.