What The Tree Left Behind - Part One

By Benjamin Tousley, on behalf of his beloved dog Bear, in whose canine voice this piece is written.

I recently learned there are many different ways to lose something.

Before this, I suppose I thought loss was fairly simple. Something was there, and then it wasn't. A person walks through a door and doesn't come back. A toy disappears beneath a piece of furniture and is apparently lost forever because humans lack both the determination and the proper body shape to retrieve it. A squirrel vanishes into the woods before I can adequately explain my position on territorial boundaries.

There. Gone. Loss.

It turns out I did not understand it nearly as well as I thought I did.

My Man and I have been traveling quite a bit lately because of his work. I like being with him, and I have become an accomplished traveler. I know the truck, my place in it, and the particular sound of the tires changing from one kind of pavement to another.

Every couple of weeks we return to our place in the mountains of Tennessee. Every time we turn onto that familiar road, something inside me changes. My nose goes up. The window becomes much more interesting. There are smells you cannot mistake once they belong to you.

The woods. Damp earth. Fields. Old leaves. Deer. Rabbits. Cattle and horses from farms farther down the road. Sometimes woodsmoke. Sometimes wildflowers. Rain coming, if you know how to smell for it.

Home has a smell. Humans seem to have forgotten this.

When we arrive, I am released from most of the ridiculous regulations that govern dogs in what humans call civilization. I don't have to wear a collar or leash. Nobody becomes "concerned" when I walk through my own yard.

At home, I am simply Bear.

I run. I investigate the property. I check the trails and determine whether deer have been trespassing. They usually have. Then, when all matters requiring my expertise have been addressed, I find my favorite place beneath the big oak tree in the front yard.

It was a wonderful tree.

Its branches spread wide over the grass, creating a great pool of shade. Beneath it, the ground stayed cool, and I could stretch out in the grass and watch my Man work without having to participate in any meaningful way.

This was an arrangement I considered ideal.

My Man does not relax when we come home. He says he is going to relax, but he never does. Within an hour, he has changed clothes and begun wandering around with his hands on his hips. This inevitably leads to tools, which lead to projects, which lead to other projects.

Soon he is carrying, stacking, cutting, digging, repairing, hauling, or mowing.

He complains constantly.

"Bear, I've got too much to do."

"Bear, I'm never going to get all this done."

"Bear, I came down here to relax."

Then he keeps working.

I have developed a theory. He likes it.

Humans have a complicated relationship with happiness. Sometimes they appear happiest while complaining about the thing making them happy.

I watch him change after several hours outside. His shoulders loosen. His face changes. The telephone stops ringing. The glowing screens are inside the house. His hands get dirty. The world gets smaller.

I think the work grounds him.

Fortunately, I am already grounded. I am a dog. So I lie beneath my oak tree and supervise.

There was another reason I loved that tree: squirrels.

The oak had developed a serious squirrel problem. The squirrels undoubtedly believed it was their tree. This was incorrect. They had simply occupied it before anyone competent arrived to enforce the rules.

I would lie beneath the branches pretending to sleep, one ear turned toward the trunk. Eventually I would hear the faint scratch of tiny claws. My eyes would open. A tail would flick somewhere above me.

The negotiations would begin.

I never caught one. That is not the point. The point was that they knew I was there.

So yes, I loved that tree.

Loved.

I understand now that this is an important distinction.

The last time we came home, we were staying for an extended holiday weekend. My Man had lists. There were plans. There were lists about plans. He checked the weather repeatedly.

Clear. Sunny. Perfect weather for several days of uninterrupted work.

We arrived Friday evening and unloaded the truck. I conducted my usual inspection. Everything seemed normal.

Then the sky changed. The wind came hard across the property—not like an ordinary wind that moves through leaves, but as something with weight behind it. Something angry.

The trees bent. The windows rattled, then shook. Things struck the house. Branches flew across the yard. Rain came sideways against the windows. The front door actually buckled inward.

That frightened me.

There are sounds in nature that speak directly to the oldest part of a dog. They require no explanation.

Danger. Find shelter. Stay close.

The electricity went out. The familiar house became dark while the world outside roared. I stayed near my Man, every crash making me flinch.

Then came a sound unlike the others.

A deep, heavy crack.

Not the snap of a branch, but a tearing sound—enormous and final.

Then came the impact.

I knew before I saw it.

My tree.

The great oak had broken roughly halfway up its trunk. Everything above the break had crashed into the front yard, its enormous crown spread across the grass where I had spent so many afternoons beneath its shade.

I stared through the window.

Trees stand. That is what trees do. They are among the few things you expect to find tomorrow exactly where you found them yesterday.

But mine was lying on the ground.

My Man looked at it and shook his head. Then he said several words I have decided not to include in this account.

After that, he went to bed.

The world was apparently ending, half the yard had blown away, my tree had been destroyed, and this man decided there was nothing he could do about it in the dark, so he might as well sleep.

Sleep?

I followed him into the bedroom partly because I wanted to stay near him and partly because I wanted to observe this level of insanity firsthand.

Another gust struck the house. Something crashed outside. He pulled up the covers, closed his eyes, and somehow fell asleep.

I remained awake considerably longer.

To be continued . . .

© by Benjamin R Tousley

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