A Ramble in Vermont

We took a break from the autumn heat and flew north to Vermont. I felt guilty leaving our potted periwinkles to fend for themselves in the balcony’s 90-degree heat. I decided they could lump it for a few days.  The purpose of our trip was to visit our friends Tank and Nelson. They each go by one name, like the Brazilian soccer players, Pele and Renaldo. One name is appropriate since Tank and Nelson are Labrador Retrievers.

Tank is thirteen, a silver lab, with a taupe coat. She is no longer as svelte as she used to be and is heavily into sleeping. Nelson is three, a lean yellow lab. He is boisterous and will fetch until the cows come home. Curled up in a sling chair, Tank observes Nelson’s moves, unimpressed. Tank is Nelson’s mentor, tutoring him to be a proper steward for the well-being of the humans who serve them. It is a part of Labrador culture to make sure their human servants are cared for, like Lord Grantham attends to the care and feeding of the staff at Downton Abbey.

Ted and Z are the resident human servants. They are provided their own bedroom and bathroom and designated seats in the living area. Humans may occupy chairs other than their designated ones, with a caveat. Should a Lab decide a particular chair is the choice de jour, an occupying human must unseat themselves promptly, with a slight bow or, preferably, genuflecting.

Being a considerate guest, My Life’s Editor brought tribute for Tank and Nelson. She presented them with a cornucopia of plush toys – a skunk, a raccoon, a fox and a beaver – chosen for specific qualities. Acceptable plush toys must a) be crunchy to the tooth and b) make squeaking sounds when gnawed upon. MLE sends acceptable toys during the year to assure that we will be welcome guests in the future. Mr. Rabbit and Mr. Stingray have been great past successes. Tank brought forth Mr. Stingray when we arrived, signaling past gifts had been approved.

Humans are expected to provide pats, ear roughing, and vigorous rubbing as required during the day. When they feel exceptionally mellow at rubbing time, Tank and Nelson roll over on their backs with their personal parts exposed. This does not reflect bad manners as humans would if they rolled on their backs with their personal parts exposed.

Demands for attention can be disconcerting. At certain times of the day humans are allowed to congregate and feed (humans must dine at the table, not permitted to share a bowl with Tank or Nelson). At breakfast the first morning, I was lifting a fork to my face when a moist muzzle thrust into my crotch. I had to feed myself with one hand while administering pats and rubs with the other. A guest must be ready to perform upon demand.

Tank and Nelson live in a charm-intensive, red barn house that screams Vermont. They have neighbors. Shorty and Pugsie, respectively a rescue dachshund and a pug, who live in a rental unit on the second floor with their human servants. As with Downton Abbey, it is a good idea to have human servants who are a couple, assuring that mundane human tasks do not create an attention deficit. Shorty and Pugsie are always welcome visitors and may share couch and chair space. Their humans must observe servant protocol.

Ted and Z are top drawer servants. They are remarkably smart for humans and won high marks at the Vermont Human Servant Training Academy. Ted purchased an epic aerobic exercise device, the HurriK9 Flying Ring Launcher Exerciser (yours for $69.99 with Amazon Prime free delivery). Nelson catches launched rings for hours; the humans tag-team exercise responsibility when they suffer launch fatigue.  Having been there, done that, Tank looks upon the exercise business with disdain, preferring a healthy flop in the sun on the wood deck. For his part, his training peaking, Nelson may enter the Vermont Flying Ring Invitational late in November.

Tank and Nelson thought the humans would enjoy a romp in the woods and off we went. They ranged far ahead, looking to roust out varmints. They trail marked with an occasional lifted leg or squat. We humans did not follow suit as we were a mixed gender group; male humans, alone, would likely have trail marked. As we walked, I scuffed up the drifts of oak and maple leaves dressed in their fall pallet, enjoying the sound and feel of autumn. With their puny, inconsequential leaves, Florida oaks just don’t suffice.

We came to an algae-spotted, muddy-edged pool tucked into a forest bog. Ted and Z fetched sticks from the forest floor and threw them into the mire. Tank and Nelson leapt. Good hosts, they invited us to leap in with them, assuring us of the excellent texture of the mud and the benefits of a coating of pond scum. We declined. Back at the red barn house after a thoroughly satisfying ramble, Ted hosed down and toweled off the swimmers, looking for hitchhiking ticks. Humans are expected to check themselves.

We sat at the Chick-fil-A emporium at the Albany airport the next morning, rehashing an excellent stay with Tank and Nelson and their amiable human servants, Ted and Z. I noshed on a breakfast sandwich, scraping up the processed cheese food sticking to the wrapper. A box of accompanying tater-tots chirped “Little bites of pure delight.” The coffee cup sleeve was even more enthusiastic: “It’s a great day to have a great day!” These jolly mottos conflicted with the woman at the cash register who looked like she had just stepped in something.

Our flight to Tampa included many families. At the TSA checkpoint a father dug for identification as five wide-eyed boys with backpacks milled around the agent. Across from me in the concourse, as I sipped my coffee, there was a bulky dad, ball-cap on backwards, two boys following like ducklings, headed for the loo. Scuttling behind them was a family with three children careening about, the dad alternately towing and pushing suitcases. Trailing everyone, the mom labored behind an enormous carriage, a wheeled ziggurat of aluminum and canvas, bags stashed below. A toddler in a tutu reigned from the peak.

Tank and Nelson are not the only ones with servants.