Just Us Chickens

Emma is a wild child, a free range dog who loves to wander. She is not a leash dog. Because we do not have a yard, I find myself breaking the law daily so she can run off leash. We rotate through ten trails that are difficult to get to and unpopular with other hikers. When we arrive at the trail head I look both ways to make sure the coast is clear. “Just us chickens,” I say to Emma as I let her off leash, silently adding “and coyotes and mountain lions.” It seems an ok trade off, just a slight risk of mauling to let Emma run free for an hour.

I save the popular trails for days when it is pouring rain, too cold, wet and muddy for any sane person to be out. “Let’s go!” I cry, throwing on her harness and my rain hat and heading out the door. When the weather is really foul, we can complete two-hour hikes without seeing a single person. When we get home, both of us are soaked through, covered in mud and quite content.

Every morning, I toast a bagel and make coffee. Emma stretches out at my feet, licking cream cheese from my fingers as I fire up Zillow and pour over real estate ads: a house on four acres in rural New Hampshire with a creek, a cabin on seven acres on an isolated island in British Columbia with a forest, a ranch on twenty acres in the exact middle of Wyoming with nothing but flat scrub brush. I imagine having a pack of dogs, running free together.

“I’m turning into my parents,” I inform my husband. “I’m going to live alone on some isolated farmstead and eventually get eaten by Emma.” “On the upside,” he said, looking thoughtful, “the property values are quite reasonable.” He is right, they are quite reasonable. Some day we will be off, but for now we just skulk around illegally in the woods and try not to get caught.