WINTER CARTING

Although I have carted in the spring, and fall, done demos in the summer (without me driving… I never make Max pull anything over 50 lbs once the temps hit over 72, let alone me<G>) there is something so intrinsically special about carting in the winter months. Perhaps it is the stillness that seems to settle over the land. A solemn quietude that in itself speaks volumes; The laughter of children playing, the distant cry of a lone train whistle, the far off wail of a raven on a high pine bough.

In the winter season is also a time that brings a richness to the senses that is all it’s own. The smell of fireplaces burning, or the unmistakable fragrance of burning leaf piles. The earthy woodsy tones of pine and juniper and the occasional smells of cooking from neighbors and homes we do not even know.
During the day the sky often fights between brilliant cobalt blues or the soft grays that permeate the season, and at night the sky sparkles with such clarity that that each and every star looks to be a diamond upon a velvet background.

With the refreshing coolness in the air, it seems to suspend time, even the most of mundane, for the simple pleasures of Dog Carting. It takes us back to an earlier time, before automobiles, before the congestion of traffic and the impersonal coldness of metal machines. It forces you to become one with another living being, to share in a partnership no matter how fleeting, a trust and a warmth in the other.

A dog, no matter how kowtowed cannot be made to pull, let alone to drive, alone. No bit is in his mouth; no device can restrain his wondrous spirit. A dog drives because he WANTS to, because for that moment, for that job, for that ride, you share together.

And although our human brains may possess an intelligence greater than most, we cannot control with utter certainty as we can a mechanical vehicle.

How often we unthinkingly get into a vehicle and start it up and drive off to our destination no matter how mundane or grand. But with a dog, with the old fashioned idea of animal cart, one MUST do things at a pace that would seem aggravating in today’s fast paced world.

Harnesses must be carefully put on, tucked and checked. There cannot be any twists in the harnessing or the traces. Paws must be inspected, ears rubbed, a big black and tan face affectionately scratched.
Nubs will wag, and praises must be spoken, for no dog will pull, will work with his partner if one is hostile or unfair. Above all else a dog demands fairness. He will pull to the ends of the earth; he will tolerate even the most ignorant of treatment, or an honest mistake. But be unfair, even once, and your partners’ intelligent brown eyes will avoid yours. His ears will lay back, his nub will softly cup down, and his spirit will sigh a heavy breath that sings of sadness.

Next the bounding bundle of black and tan muscle must be settled between the aluminum shafts. His energy is so electric you cannot help but feel it. Your heart races, your hands ache to grasp the reins and race with him, as fast as the wind, but that is not the way. Not in dog carting. There is a more contained and restrained atmosphere. A Rottweiler is like a heavy draft horse. He is not built for speed, but a slow endurance for many miles. Start him off to fast, allow him to burn his energy in a 1-mile exuberant burst and he will strain to keep the trot going for longer. Then carting will become a chore, and he will no longer enjoy it. It is up to you the human, to guide him, to let him know when to hold back and push forward. To let him know when a slope is coming that he can coast down, or when he needs to save that energy for an uphill climb where he will have to dig in and his muscles will have to work harder.

The wind picks up, wafting to you both those wondrous winter smells, and the chill in the air, refreshes even already electric muscles and energy. Double check those harnesses again. He cannot tell you if something is twisted and will pinch him painfully the whole time. He cannot tell you if a small twig or stone is caught in the fleece of the harness that goes around his powerful chest. This is what he trusts you for.

The walking, oh the ponderous walking! How he sings to run! He shimmies, he dances, his eyes alight with a twinkle! The bells on his collar and harness ring enticingly, and he swings his head with a smile, his broad blocky head splitting wide, teeth showing, tongue hanging out. “Run! Run! Run!” he thinks, “I smell duck! I smell Dove! I smell other dogs! I see kids on bicycles! I want to chase them all! I want to run, I want to fly! I want to see ALL of the street, the neighborhood the world! If only we could go now!” This is what runs through his mind, this is the excitement that pounds in his ears.

You pull the coat tighter around you; it’s amazing how chill can creep in on the wide-open streets across from the pine forests. You give a soft “Whoa.” Then a sterner one, as his whoa becomes a “I am walking so slowly as that you may not even me notice me moving, but maybe you can jump in as we are going…”

He stops, and you settle in the seat. There are two reins, but they connect to a choke collar. They are not true steering devices anymore than sticking your hand out a car steers it. They are there to offer you comfort, there as a reminder for you both, and there to assure the innocent pedestrian, but carting at least myself and Max’s carting is done 98% by voice signal.

He looks back at me, the ponderous two legged one, as if I am the slowest creature on the face of this earth. “Aren’t you in YET?” he seems to demand. “You are purposely doing this aren’t you?” he seems to glare at me, “why we could have been down by the Salterton pond by now, if you plopped that behind down a little faster…”

“Hike! Hike!” I say excitedly, “Hike Max!” He practically leaps forward like a great thoroughbred out of the starting gate. I have always envisioned Max having great dreams in his canine head of sailing past multitudes of dog sleds to win the Iditerod Sledding Race, but these are his fantasies for his head alone.

For now, his great Rottweiler muscles bunch and he throws himself in the harness, pulling as his forefathers and ancestors before him did. Does he ever wonder this as he pulls? How for so many generations his breed has faithfully pulled the wagons of the Romans, of the happy citizens of Rottweil Germany, or here in the USA or how his cousins the Berners and Greater Swiss Mountain dogs have all thrown that mighty chest into the harness before him? I think not, but he does what he knows feels right to him deep in his soul, and so he gets us going up to a fast trot in a matter of seconds.

This is where the talking begins. If you don’t talk, if you don’t guide, then your dog will assume you want the guided tour of the neighborhood without your input. Unfortunately dogs cannot read ‘Stop’ signs nor do they realize that the 2001 Black SUV has the right a way at the yield sign. So you tell him, “Gee over, Gee” (right side of the road Max). “Easy, slow up” (as he comes to a yield sign) or a “Haw! Haw!” if we are making a sharp left at the four-way intersection.

All the time the air swipes by your head and hair, the reins feel good in your hand. (They don’t control but allow you to FEEL to truly feel that special connection between you, each pulse of his powerful muscles, each strong step of his trot). Those who drive a motorcycle have a good inkling of what it is I speak of when I say a “true freedom” from the modern day ‘blindness’ of man and nature, those who ride or drive horses have an even better understanding and a language and bond all their own with their special friends, but a dog…A dog, he pulls you because he wants to, because he WANTS you along on the journey with him. The freedom is in sharing one another’s world, being each other’s eyes, ears, nose, and brain…. Two sets of separate bodies becoming one. He cannot read the road signs and I cannot smell how along ago that squirrel pooped in the road. While the humor is intentional between Max and I, there have been times I have been grateful for that keen nose, and that ultrasonic hearing. Times when we are both drivers and both spectators. One may DRIVE a car, or even a horse, but a one shares the journey with a dog. It is a bonding and a trust that comes from both.

When children wave to us, Max glows, he positively glows. I wave, and he picks his head up a little higher. When cars come barreling down the curve, he instinctively hugs the outside curb a bit tighter, without my ever saying a word. For a dog who would run all day until he died chasing a ball or a cat, if one now comes racing past, he ignores it as I give a soft “On by…” he doesn’t really need that reminder any more. So many years have we carted that he already knows this is not the time and place to chase loose animals or the errant basketball, but he knows it makes me feel good to say it, and so he indulges me. Now in the wonderful August of our lives we feel comfortable enough to occasionally share a dry wit with one another, and so occasionally, just occasionally, when I say “On By” his signal to “ignore” a distraction and keep going he will occasionally ‘veer’ to the left or right, just an inch or two, just enough to throw me to one side of the seat or another. Enough to enjoy his grand joke on me. His version of “made ya look!”

Which is Ok….Sometimes I give him a “Gee” when I am turning left or a “Haw” when we are already turning right, just enough to make him think, “Made ya look!”. We take a special pride in this banter he and I, after all we are partners. Not man and beast, not man and machine, but partners and as such we trust one another enough to joke now, even play a good prank on one another. But never in seriousness, never in anger, and never in harm of the other.

I wave to new neighbors I have never met before; a neighborhood that I am new to as well. There is something ‘magical’ about something so timeless and ancient as man and animal working together in a partnership. We have become so used to the mechanical madness and rush of our mundane world that the sight of a dog, wagon and human can make the youngest and oldest smile and wave. I think there is something that touches even the most hardened part of us that calls us back to a simpler more peaceful time. That Max and I can be a time machine that brings that smallest of ancient memory back to us, and can share brings both of us a profound sense of fulfillment. Even if no other humans existed for miles around, the sense of partnership and working relationship that Max and I bring one another fulfills my own soul on a level that I cannot even comprehend. Perhaps it is I who truly long to visit that more “simpler” time and Max who is the ‘Time Machine’.

The ride is never long enough and each ride is different than the last. Each time of the day has it’s own pleasures, solitudes and excitements. Each journey is one that always starts and ends the same. Begins with the electric energy that is always fresh, as if each time is the first time. Each ride seems to end the same…

“Whoa…whoa…” I say in a low voice. He throws down his haunches, and the brake stops on the shaft grab the harness. He hunkers down in the breeching and uses his butt to slow down the cart. This time I do swing off fast, just to ease my partners’ load. My legs are always wobbly after the ride. That comes from all the adrenaline that has been coursing through my veins, the “rush” that is now slowly subsiding within me. He gives a good shake, letting his hair re-flatten comfortably in the harness. We walk for at least a few hundred yards then. He and I…letting his muscles cool down, relax. Giving me a chance to watch his swaying gait from the ground to make sure he has not gotten a sore paw pad or strained any muscles. His nub is still wagging, his tongue hanging out with a satisfied and tired look. A good tired, a happy tired, ever exhausted. Sometimes I will scratch those velvety black ears, or itch those places that were under the harness as we walk. He knows once we get home and unhitch and take off the harness he will get a full rubdown with a towel, just to make him feel good. He knows he will get massaged and relaxed like some champion marathon runner, not because I must, but because I love him and he is my partner. He deserves it.

Usually it is always the same, cool down routine. Wordless, a ritual that has gone on between us for years and years now. Walking, panting, my own breathing excited. Sometimes, just sometimes, if the ride was one that was special for both of us, I will say, “Wasn’t that something, Max?” in a low voice. And he will look up at me, those ageless brown eyes peering deep into mine. “It sure was…” he will seem to say.

Then we get to the driveway where we will unhitch, unharness and do the true cool down. “That’ll do,” I say, like those that do herding. Max and I have always liked the soft comforting phrase of “That’ll do.”

We know it will never truly “do”. There will always be another ride, somewhere, sometime. A whole new adventure unto itself, a whole new journey; but for today, for this ride, for this time. “That’ll do.”

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This article is used with permission. © 2005 J.D. Ellis rottweilerdriver@aol.com