HAPPY TRAVELERS

I've been taking the dogs to the river every day. I need their joy — the way they shake with anticipation in the car and gallop through the air when we get there. The way they seem to actually smile from ear to ear and act each and every time like it's the very first time.

Yesterday we were heading down a trail, far past the off-leash area, Mabel and Rupert running in tandem ahead, then behind, then circling me, checking in, as they do, to see that I'm still there, to show me what fun they're having — racing like mad, digging holes, splashing into the river, leaping over dead trees, standing stock-still and listening for forest noises.

The acoustics are weird. A few times recently we've come across big parties of people, a dozen or more, who seemed to appear out of nowhere. Maybe I was just deep in a daydream. Maybe there was a crunch of leaves and twigs and animated voices preceding their actual appearance, but I didn't notice. They were just there: a whole film crew, a gaggle of teenagers. (I thought, remember being a teenager and having nowhere to go? Driving around and around. Smoking cigarettes in the park. Making plans. Waiting for life to start.)

We rounded a bend and surprised an elderly couple tottering down the trail, he with a bamboo cane, she with something on her head that put the words "wind bonnet" into mine. Both were dressed for a January blizzard. I got worried that the dogs would upset them, that they'd go zipping past a little too close for comfort (they've taken me out at the knee more than once), or that Rupert would douse them with a big bodyshake of stinky river water. "They should be on leashes here," I could already hear the old folk saying.

Then it happened. My fear. Mabel and Rupert conspired for a sinister second, then rocketed ahead of me, nipping each other furiously along the way, heading straight for the couple, who, through deafness or daydreaming, didn't hear them coming, didn't have warning to step aside.

The dogs gleefully broke through the frail pair, with the force of a fifth-grader's Red-Rover assault, Mabel soaring between them, Rupert on an outer edge. I swear they gave each other the equivalent of a doggy high-five as the couple — still upright, thank God — teetered and recovered their balance. The dogs proudly looped back toward me. I pretended to not know them, which is also my strategy when they poop in public and I don't have a bag. I just act like that leash tethering them to me is some kind of bizarre coincidence.

The old people stood there as I approached. I was afraid to make eye contact, even as I prepared to apologize. As our eyes met, though, they both broke into ear-to-ear smiles, and the lady held her wind bonnet and chortled, "Now those are some happy travelers!"

"They are," I said. "I'm glad you see it that way."

Then I passed them and meandered down the trail to the next close call (It's a fine line between thrill and disaster), which was Rupert getting lost.

The two rascals always explore in the woods. Sometimes they're off the trail for five minutes or more, but they generally come when I call. Especially Rupert. He usually comes bounding back immediately, dutifully, happy as hell to see me, with a look on his face like "You rang, Madame?" Mabel, on the other hand, is in no hurry. Mabel is on Coonhound Time, which means, "Maybe I'll come when I'm done exploring this interesting scent." (George and I are fond of repeating the truism "Mabel is a bitch.") Rupert is on Shepherd Time, which means, "I better go check on my Mama Sheep. It's been two whole minutes since I last saw her."

Rupert is also sometimes torn between Mabel's mysterious allure, her penchant for adventure and naughtiness, and my less exciting but more dependable penchant for feeding and petting him. She is the mistress. I am the wife.

As I was heading back to the car, I figured he ran off with the mistress, so I started calling them. And calling them. No response. No response. And calling some more, with variations on their names, with variations in pitch. With clapping. With great sternness. And finally with a note of desperation. My fear is that they will discover the levee and burn with the passion of Eve to know what's on the other side. I fear the levee like fundamentalist parents fear science.

Finally, Mabel emerges from the woods. Good, good. But wait. Wrong order. Where is Rupert?

I start shouting his name, knowing that something is wrong. "Rooo-perrrrt! Rooo-perrrrt!"

Mabel begins to look alarmed. I say, "Mabel, find Rupert. Where's Rupert? Find him."

This is a game we have played since she was a pup. Finding people she knows, but usually people who are six feet away, like "Mabel, find Erin." And Mabel will more or less go to Erin. If I say, "Find Kim," she will come to me and stick her snout in my face, almost without fail.

But she has traditionally displayed little interest in finding Rupert. Her response always seems to be "find him yourself."

But, as I kept calling for him yesterday and telling her to find him, she became interested. Maybe she could sense my worry, or maybe she was just tired and wanted to find his sorry ass so we could go home. Whatever her motivation, she started sniffing the ground, tail up, zigzagging through the woods. She led me right to the little guy. How do dogs do that? She even seemed to point, like "there he is, the pitiful laggard."

He looked thrilled to see me. I walked over to him and saw that his front paw was wedged in the crevice of a log. I helped him maneuver it out. He gave me a little lick — a peck on the cheek for a wife — and ran down the trail after his haughty mistress.