Wild Rush

Walking my dog Tooman down Russel Rush Lane, the road on which I’ve lived my whole life, the freezing breeze of a winter’s night raises goosebumps beneath my heavy coat. When we’ve gone nearly five hundred feet from our warm home, my dog, Tooman’s, behavior becomes more unruly with every step. His yellow boot clad feet stomp excitedly into every puddle we pass, and his matching yellow jacket makes him look like a tiny fire hydrant bouncing down the pavement. 

Tooman’s orange leash is held taut between his skinny neck and my right wrist; my left hand explores the barren flora next to me. Trees and bushes that were filled with green leaves three short months ago are devoid of any color save for lifeless brown. A small bird’s nest, surely long since abandoned by its builder, rustles loudly in the biting wind--the only sound audible in this otherwise silent night. 

The pale light of the moon illuminates tens of similar houses, and a black street covered in large puddles. Each thud of my watertight boots sends drops of near freezing water hurtling away from me, as if fleeing a fleet-footed cyclops hell bent on destruction. A heavy black coat shields me from the wind biting at my back, and my loose gray sweatpants ripple with each gust. 

An awkward tug from the leash draws my attention to Tooman; kneeling down next to him I lift his right foot and pull the orange lead out from under. I feel his short blonde fur brush against my fingers, bringing much needed warmth to the numbing digits. His head turns towards mine, and we lock eyes. His wet tongue licks my hand, which amplifies the cold weather. I stand up slowly, petting his small head. 

I shove both hands into my jacket pockets, and with the lead sticking out of my right pocket, I raise my eyes forward. As soon as my dilated eyes registered the dark forest now only one hundred feet away, a swift oncoming gust forces them shut. The stinging pain of dry eyes pulls my attention from Tooman, who leads me down the street for nearly half a minute. 

Once I finally open my stinging eyes, I am met by crushing darkness. In thirty seconds Tooman has dragged us away from the well-lit streets behind us. Bordered by a small creek on our left and forbidding woods to our right, the road under our feet is all that separates us from the unforgiving wilderness. Now without the aid of street lamps or the waxing gibbous moon, hidden by towering barren trees, I can barely see Tooman’s neon coat four feet from my face. 

Though I can’t see him, I know he’s there by continued tugging against the leash. Until the tugging stops, I’m left blind and directionless. Kneeling again into a shallow puddle, my hands reach out and find Tooman’s coat. The slick water coated rubber squeaks against my fingers, and the sound is amplified by the darkness all around me. Twice more I run my fingers over his stiff yellow jacket, but the second run is interrupted by a chilling sound from the forest. 

I stare forward and right, as does Tooman, straining our eyes to see what made that sound. Is it a falling branch? A footstep? A bark? As much as I need to know, it’s impossible to see anything beyond the tall thin trees bordering the road. The leash is again pulled taut as Tooman rushes toward the sound and growls the most hateful growl I’ve ever heard. Every hair on my neck and arms stands seeing his tiny body filled with such rage, and taking two steps toward him I hold his leash, not allowing another inch of movement. 

Bark… Bark… Bark

Unmistakable against the silent night, a dog’s bark—deep and threatening—sends dread coursing through my veins. Instinctually I drop to the ground next to Tooman; I pull him quickly toward me, but in doing so I rip apart the jacket’s buttons under his belly. As I wrap one arm around his chest, the warm fur brings mild comfort in the face of the dark forest. My other hand wraps gently around his growling mouth, as I know that one bark from Tooman may alert this threat to our presence. 

Tiny Tooman’s yellow rubber boots still trail ripples in the shallow puddles, and I pull him tighter against me. Thirty feet from the forest, separated from the wild dog by a wet black street, I search fervently for any visual sign of the dog: a moving branch, a dark moving form, or the reflection of yellow eyes. 

Tooman’s wet black nose grazes my cheek, begging for my attention. My long brown hair falls over my left shoulder as I glance at Tooman, and our worried eyes lock. In that moment it’s as if our brains are interconnected. His brown eyes shimmer with the pale light of terror, and I’m sure mine communicate the same emotion. Though he’s small and defenseless, no more than thirty pounds soaking wet, he knows that I’ll do everything in my power to keep him safe. As a woodland doe hides from a seeking fox, we huddle quietly and pray that the darkness hides us. 

Deciding that we must leave, and soon, my grip around Tooman’s belly shifts. His fur, now wet and cold, slides against my exposed wrist. We make eye contact once more and I can hear his thoughts in my head: “we need to go. Get me out of here!”

In five brief seconds I’ve lifted Tooman from the ground and hoisted him over my shoulder. Taking one step, then two, then five, we’re soon engulfed by the warm light of a lamp post. Hearing another bark from the dark forest behind us, my legs move on their own burning the rubber of my hiking boots. Trapped in my firm grasp Tooman barely moves, and the dark houses on our right blur quickly past us. I spare a glance behind, expecting to see a muscled dog giving chase, but an empty street meets my gaze. 

Not to be fooled by this predator’s tricks, I don’t stop running until I reach the brightly lit porch of my house. Placing Tooman on the wet grass, our eyes connect one more time. He thanks me for saving his life, and we walk quickly over the threshold.