Part I, Part II, Part III.5, & Part IV
Peering back now, despite her adorable demeanor and smile, Brynn was a pain in the ass.
Our first few weeks together were elated happiness from what I can remember. I mean, a new cute little dog, who in the world wouldn’t be excited? And as excited as I was to have a new dog to fill the void of loneliness, Brynn became more than what I bargained for.
It’s funny, looking back on it now, I don’t recall any objection from my parents when it came to my decision to adopt Brynn. They knew about my chaotic few days with Stout, and maybe they believed it was enough of a burden to knock me back on track. But lest, I stubbornly persisted. Knowing myself, if anything I adopted the more “beg for forgiveness, than ask for permission’’ mentality when it came to Brynn. I think, also, my dad loved Brynn from the moment he rubbed her belly.
Though in no way her responsibility, Allison offered no warning about how stubborn corgi’s could be to train, something I learned much later than I should have. It’s possible, given Brynn being only 6 months old, she didn’t even know herself. Given Allison’s massive family of dogs, I also wouldn’t be surprised if the dogs almost train themselves, learning from each other, the more senior dogs keeping the younger ones in check. But in this instance, the only person I could blame was myself. As much as I would have liked to have thought I had the ability to be a dog trainer (relying on my personal experience or growing up with dogs, working at a Petsmart in high school, and doggy daycare after), the sentiment was more “armchair” than anything else.
When I came home from my part-time job working at an Italian deli one evening to find Brynn had escaped her crate and chewed through my Bose headphones, suspicion was beginning to grow - I may be in over my head with this ball of furry Chaos named Brynn.
Brynn had a tendency to resist coming back inside after we had been out for a decent amount of time, no matter the weather. I would get down on her level, start calling out, “Brynn! Brynn!”, as she would lock eyes with me for a few seconds in what felt like a contest, and then would complete 180 her big ol’ butt in the opposite direction, with a shit eating grin across her whole face, tongue flopping out on the side. The grin was the part that got me riled up the most, and while at first the whole charade was cute, after about a week, the sun setting earlier, and the bitey cold of the Central Oregon wind delivering the news of a harsh winter, my patience was growing pretty thin very fast. While the memory is fairly cute, at the time this caused me nothing but frustration.
As the cold air came straight into our December lives, staying outside for a long period of time amongst the dusty trails and towering juniper pines began to wane. It took a lot of coaxing on my end to get her inside, treats and all, and corgi’s being as intelligent as they are, Brynn caught onto my tricks fairly fast. Sure, the solution would have been to keep her on a leash the whole time, but given the whole entire Deschutes National Forest could be her playground, I wanted nothing more than to train her to be off leash generally, especially when it came to eventually having her join me on trail runs.
Surrounding the neighborhood of my parent’s home was a plethora of human-made ponds which would quickly freeze over during the winter. On a December afternoon, Brynn took off after I was diligently trying to coax her back inside in the most delicate of ways possible. She was like a feral animal, eluding capture, and I was the fool who tried too hard to think I could outwit her. This time though, she headed straight in between the houses of two neighbors way down the block, onto a large pond that had recently frozen over.
Terror and panic swept across my face. The freezing temperatures hadn’t exactly been consistent over the last week, and visions of this stocky little corgi breaking through the ice, using her stubby little legs to keep from falling in completely flooded my eyesight… And, of course, the idea of me having to dive in after her waded there too.
Like a nature documentarian, trying to capture footage of an elusive rare animal, I made my way towards her, trying not to show my complete panic. From the “shore” of the pond, I tried everything from getting really excited, calling her name in high pitched tones, while slapping my thighs, to throwing treats towards her, luring her closer to the shore. Nothing worked. She just ran around in circles on the pond, as if the whole procedure was one big carnival game.
A neighbor in one of the houses must have seen my frantic failed attempts of rescuing this dog, and came out into the freezing cold, geared up, and asked “Need some help?”. Her question caught me off guard, and I desperately answered “Yes. Please!”. She walked off her snow covered back porch that faced the lake, and straddled up to the shoreline where I was standing.
Brynn became instantly aware of this new person, her ears perking up in our direction. After asking for Brynn’s name, the neighbor crouched down to Brynn’s level, and started calling her over. Excited to hear a fresh voice calling her name instead of my high-pitched frustrated pleading, Brynn sprinted across the ice towards us, both of us swallowing down the tension of the ice breaking beneath her stubby legs.
A gigantic sigh of relief swept across us both once Brynn was at arm’s length, and I was able to secure the leash to her collar… Not before receiving some unsolicited, though sage, advice from my neighbor about trying to use an “excited voice” rather than high-pitched while trying to get Brynn’s attention, as dogs are critically aware of tone… And maybe investing in a trainer.
Despite the terror and frustration carried through this event, this was far from my most shameful memory, not only dealing with Brynn, but of my life so far.
We survived the winter of Bend without any more “frozen pond” incidents, and in the early spring of the next year, I began attending the local community college in Bend, focusing on classes that would help propel me towards my future brewing career.
Every Friday before taking off to my regularly scheduled Friday morning microbiology lab, Brynn and I did our usual song and pee dance. By this point, we were becoming a bit more accustomed towards each other, and her propensity to do her mad dash run away was fading.
But this particular Friday, Brynn could sense my anxiety, as this specific lab was part of the final, and I wanted to arrive early to arrest my stress. We took a shortcut between neighboring houses, back towards my parent’s place, cutting our typical walk time in half. Brynn must have detected something was up. After noticing Brynn wasn’t trotting along my one side, I suddenly turned around near the pathway of my parent’s place, finding her in the middle of the road, a few driveways down. I knew exactly what was about to happen, kicking myself for lacking the foresight to throw a leash on her beforehand.
I approached the situation with kid gloves. It felt like a wild west stand-off, the surrounding pine trees looming over us like citizens of a town hiding and cowering from the impending shoot-out at high noon. As soon as I crouched down to entice her with treats from my pocket, Brynn darted off in the direction of the woods. With every “fuck” muttered under my breath, my stress and anxiety was snowballing until I was completely frozen in place.
With the clock now well past the time I was supposed to leave for my lab, my frustration was at an all time high. Thousands of scenarios ran through my head. Would I fail this class? Would I fail at my future of brewing? I didn’t even know what to do. I can’t remember if I ran after her at first, weaving through the side yards of houses, trying to figure out where she had gone. But I regrettably remember what I did, eventually.
I just left her out there.
I don’t remember my rationale for leaving at the time, if there even was one. I believe I convinced myself I could take my lab, come straight back home, and she would be sitting on the front porch of my parent’s house, looking at me in some form of understanding, never to “pull that kind of stunt again” (giving Dad energy here).
I didn’t think about the implications of leaving her alone out in the wilderness; I was too enamored and in the throes of my own frustration, and my overall frustrations with her past “misgivings” - As though they all coagulated into this moment, right here, to enact some form of retribution. I held no remorse, no panic, no worry. I don’t know why, but in retrospect, I knew everything would turn out fine.
This past behavior scares me now.
I hoped the slamming of car doors and the rumble of the diesel engine starting would suddenly spark a panic in Brynn’s body - a bird call of sorts - and I would sigh relief as her stumpy legs galloped around the corner of a neighboring house, a look of apology smitten across her face. But the trodding of a furry face never came; an additive to the list of the fire occupying my present mind.
As I took off in my car, my body was fueled with anger as I looked at the time, knowing I would be late for the lab. My blame was pin-pointed solely on Brynn. How could she do this to me? How could she just run off like this, to me? Doesn’t she know how important all of this is? My priority was completely focused on this lab final; more important than this tiny creature whom I had left, now wandering somewhere in the cold distant pine forests behind me. This tiny, furry, pain in the ass creature, who for all I knew, was just playing a game with me. Who just wanted to be outside a little longer. Who didn’t understand the complexities of life, the importances of “lab finals”, the weight of responsibility, and of the future.
I felt red hot, both physically and emotionally, walking through the classroom door. The professor’s voice hit my ears, recognizing his drone over the details of the lab final. Even though I was only 10 minutes late, it felt like I had already failed the class. Quickly, a hushed silence blanketed the room, all eyes transfixed on my flustered entrance, embarrassment transitioning to shame transitioning to more anger.
“They don’t know the bullshit I’ve been dealing with”, I remember thinking to myself, my head spinning in multiple directions at once, an inkling of worry about Brynn’s whereabouts tapping at the surface.
My body language was nothing but aggressive, as I made a barreling b-line towards my usual workstation in the middle of the room, only to find my lab partner paired with someone else in my absence. The look of grievance on my face must have been enough to signal to this temporary partner to skedaddle, as I whispered an apology to my partner, saying something about the dog getting loose, but nothing more.
Settling into my seat created a sense of calm, but the feeling was fleeting as my phone began to buzz. An unknown number appeared on the screen, having anticipated something like this was bound to happen. Just as soon as it felt like the eyes of the room were off of me, they were back on, as I swiftly sulked my way out of the lab, trying to be less pronounced this time, heading into the dimly lit concrete hallway of the lower level of the science building.
My whole body felt shaky, as my sweaty palm answered the call. As I presumed, the unknown number was a neighbor nearby, finding my contact information on Brynn’s collar. They had found Brynn while working out in their yard, explaining how she appeared out of nowhere from the bushes, a smile on her face, like she had experienced the best day of her life.
After I thanked them profusely for finding her, the neighbor immediately dove into asking why Brynn was outside in the first place. I fumbled and stumbled through some sort of an explanation that would make me look less like a bad dog owner, but what felt like a decade of empty silence on the other end of the line followed. I cut the hushed static with “The front door is open to the house, if you could throw her inside, that would be amazing, I need to get back to my lab!” Before abruptly ending the call, I heard a “Sure”. What this neighbor currently thought of me was a new form of anxiety quietly festering amongst everything else.
I sped home after finishing the lab. Opening the front door to my parents house, I found Brynn wagging her tail, her trademark grin stretching from ear to ear. My eyes immediately shifted from her, to small pieces of leather scattered throughout the entryway, leading a trail into the living room, where Brynn had viciously attacked a corner of the newer leather chairs my parents had purchased for the house. And who says karma doesn’t exist?
I look back on this moment in my life with such shame, yet there exists a prideful part of me attempting to justify my actions, to excuse my behavior. A tendency to leave it all behind, to be lackadaisical with feelings as though to be completely apathetic, even to a dog. I could use my angsty loneliness and heartbreak at the time as reasoning, chalk it all up to being “a late teen” who doesn’t know better. When in reality, I made a terrible decision out of pure immature frustration. Because I was tired. Because I was tired of dealing with this dog, and was very much over my head.
But hey, it wasn’t always all bad!
Stay tuned for conclusion to this story next week!
PS - Apologies for the lateness on this one - lots of movement (physically and emotionally) have happened in the last couple months, and I’m now coming into the slowdown of things. Will be “showcasing” it all, soon enough.