The secret hideaway





Last Christmas I bought the new dog a purportedly therapeutic dog bed so cozy I wanted to curl up in it. Nearly 365 days later, the dog is still sacking out exclusively on a threadbare throw rug in the hall.

I’m only up to my third dog so far. Perhaps eventually I’ll have a clue as to how these creatures think.

This fall I brought the new dog along on visits to a rugged parcel of land in rural Agoura owned by my friend Tiller’s boss, who uses it as a retreat. We are permitted to picnic and hike there with one proviso: We must perform some brush clearance in return.

While we were working, I noticed the new dog had found a secret hideaway for himself— an opening in a dense stand of chamise. It was off a dirt path that was strewn with brittle gray heaps of expired buckwheat and sumac.

I was relieved he’d found a place to settle, because as a former stray the new dog can be anxious in strange places. On subsequent visits he’d immediately home in on his little shaded clearing in the chamise.

One afternoon when I brought the dog a dish of water there, I noticed dieback on overhanging branches so I took my pruning shears to them. The desiccated leaflets showered down on the dog like a blizzard of confetti. He pawed at his ears and sneezed.

Next I noticed the entrance to his lair was made up of a grim tangled mess of woody debris. I fetched another useful tool. Soon a broad, sandy path led right up to the dog’s hideaway. The trimmed chamise formed a sun-dappled canopy above him.

As I was congratulating myself on my brush-clearance skills, the dog rose and gave a mighty shake. Then he swiftly trotted down the cleared path directly to my car, where he pawed at the door to be let in. My car’s back seat is his No. 1 den.

On later visits, the dog gave his secret hideaway a wide berth, never again venturing out on the path to it. I confided in my friend Tiller how crushed and mystified I was by the turn of events.

“He’s like a lot of us guys,” Tiller said by way of explanation. “He’s a slob. He doesn’t want the maid invading his personal space. He had the perfect secret hideaway—all dark, primitive and grungy.”

This Christmas, the dog seems to have acquired a ghostwriter. I recognize Tiller’s handwriting on the Christmas card but sense the ghostwriter is pretty well in tune with the dog. The card reads:

“To my stupendous but sometimes misguided human: All I need from you, you’ve already given me—a loving home. But if it pleases you, I vow to sleep in that confounded dog bed, so long as you promise to keep your mitts off my next hideaway!”

Reach Gloria Glasser at ranchomulholla@gmail.com.



Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *