He did totally pull me off my feet. He really did lunge at his friend Chapman, a black Lab, while on leash and while I was off balance with one foot in a calf deep hole in the snow. And he did this only two days after walking off when I took a bad spill on a damaged steel grate in a sidewalk. I felt some kind of way that he didn't come and check on me then and it came right back today she he just forgot about the leash because he felt like playing.
But there was a lot more to this morning. While he was off-leash in the park with Chapman, Prophet ran headlong up and down the trail; Chapman in hot pursuit. They wrestled with each other and played tug with sticks. And this all gave me a great deal of joy. We took our off-piste detours into the ravines and down to the Metro North tracks, too. Even two days after the most recent snow (and there have been so many storms) we were breaking trail there. And Prophet also lured me into playing tug with his sticks once Chapman went home.
But the story I want to choose is that Prophet got a small piece of stick lodged deep in his throat. The distress is unmistakable: he shakes his head, mouth open, and tries to insert a paw. Once I saw I reached into his mouth and down his throat. On my third try (!) I got that twig and pulled it out. Now the temperature was in the mid-teens and having my hand coated with saliva in the wind was no great pleasure. But I helped my friend. More, he let me. How much trust must it take for him to allow me to reach into his throat, especially when he is frightened and in trouble? Not to speak, I suppose, of my trust that he won't take my hand off at the wrist. I don't know what he remembers about this six hours later. But I know that I can choose to remember. Just as I can choose to forget that he yanked me off my feet. Because I choose to value our mutual trust over his momentary loss of control in the face of the joy of play.
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