I had a suburban childhood. There was lots of grass (which I had to mow) and a garden (which I had to weed) and every house in our subdivision had its own spindly little tree. There were parks and artificial ponds and the remnant of a prairie behind my elementary school where my second grade class once went birdwatching (we saw nothing) and where, it was rumored, a scary motorcycle gang liked to hang out (never saw evidence of that, either, but someone’s older sister had seen them once). One summer I went to overnight camp, but it was the sort of camp where everyone wore Guess jeans and Esprit t-shirts and cheerleading was the most popular elective, so our “overnight” consisted of a campfire followed by a night of sleeping under the stars on the soccer field.
The upshot of this is that by the time I finally got to go camping as an adult, I was charmed by the whole experience: the sounds of the woods at night, the smell of campfires, the taste of fresh water from a pump, the excitement of being in a tent during a thunderstorm.
Joe had, I think, a rural puppyhood. Actually, that’s unclear. All we know is that he was picked up by the shelter in Athens, Alabama, sometime in November 2019. He had neither tags nor microchip and it was assumed by everyone that he’d been living as a stray, although what that means is also unclear. Was he having a merry Lady and the Tramp-like existence, living footloose and collar-free, befriending zoo animals, cadging meals from restaurants, and keeping one step ahead of the dogcatcher? Or was he hungry and shivering by himself in the woods?
Somehow I think it must be closer to the latter because the first thing he did when he came to live with us was jump onto the couch and make himself comfortable, like he was never going to leave. But I didn’t think too much about it. That was about six weeks before the pandemic and for a year and a half, we couldn’t go anywhere, except on brief day hikes. But finally, the humans were vaccinated, the campsites were open again, and fall weather had arrived, and I decided one weekend to take him camping in northwestern Illinois, near Galena.
The weather was clear and sunny. I set up the tent while Joe watched, and then we set out on a hike. We saw lots of trees, lots of rocks, some picturesque running streams, and a clogged-up river. We met friendly hikers who petted Joe and told him how handsome he was. This was how most of our day hikes had gone. Afterwards, we would get junk food and go home and take a nap in our bed.
But today we were camping! Back at the campsite, I built us a fire with a tiny bit of help from some starter logs. I was quite proud of myself. I’d brought a couple of toasting forks and I roasted us each a hot dog. Joe wolfed his down and I ate mine at a more leisurely (that is, human) pace.
Then it was time for what I happen to think is the best part of camping: sitting around the campfire and making s’mores, singing songs, and talking about the nature of the universe. Joe does a lot of singing and I do a lot of philosophizing while we’re at home, but I’ve always thought that the campfire made it more special. I sat down on the ground where I could get warm and called for Joe.
But he refused to come. “What is this?” he seemed to say. “You want me to sit on the ground?”
Maybe he really had been scarred by his puppyhood. Maybe the prospect of sitting on the ground brought back terrible memories. Maybe his time as a pet had spoiled him. In any case, he flat out refused to sit. He paced around for a little while and then went back to the tent where there was, at least, a sleeping bag for him to lie on.
The night was colder than I had anticipated. I had to fold up the sleeping bag so I could stay warm. I dragged the cover from the backseat of the car for Joe to lie on. He refused to cuddle with me. I think he resented the whole camping experience, especially when the kids in the campsite next to us started yelling and shining their flashlight at our tent and into our faces.
It was a long night.
The next morning, we woke up early. We drove to an apple orchard so I could buy some cider doughnuts and some apples. Joe wasn’t allowed near the trees, so we missed out on the whole apple picking experience.1 Then we drove into town so I could have breakfast and we could stroll up and down Main Street.
It was when the strolling started that I noticed a change in Joe’s demeanor. During the hiking he had been politely curious and during the camping he had been resentful and then resigned, but on the street, where there were many more people to admire him, he blossomed. He raised his head and wagged his tail and let his ears bounce up and down. He almost pranced.
We poked our heads into stores. A lot of the store owners had dog treats. This made Joe extremely happy. Every time someone petted him or praised his appearance or told him he was a good boy, he grabbed his leash in his mouth and shook it. The message was clear: This life, the life of city (or town) streets filled with shops and restaurants and, most of all, admiring people was the life Joe was meant to live. How ridiculous of me to think he might actually prefer sleeping on the ground in a tent in the middle of the woods.
We have not been camping since. We did visit a cabin in the woods. Joe lay on the bed and admired the campfire through the window.
Does your dog enjoy the wilderness? Is it possible Joe could learn to appreciate it too? Please share your tips in the comments.
Dog content of the week
How does one pronounce “Turgk”?
But Joe is low to the ground, so he wouldn’t have been able to reach the high branches anyway. This is one of the reasons apple picking is overrated, at least if you’re short.