What Wine Pairs Best with Humble Pie?

Earlier this week Best and I were hiking at one of his favorite destinations (“favorite,” according to him, is defined by an abundance of stinky stuff in which to roll, sticks to carry, and animals to chase). Even on the busiest day there we’ve only encountered one other person on the trail, and as it was just past daybreak, I knew we had a better chance of spying a coyote making his way home from a night of carousing than another human. Added to this, the fact that it was below freezing and windy all but guaranteed our solitude in the wilderness.

Feeling pretty smug about our hardiness and overly proud of my well-mannered dog who occasionally runs ahead to investigate fresh tracks but returns to trot amiably by my side when asked, I should have sensed the foreshadowing of the moment. I’ve read enough Greek tragedies to know what happens when characters are so fat with hubris that they waddle headlong into destruction.

At the soft bend in the path that leads to a small lake many geese frequent, Best charged ahead, tail held high in wild and unfettered joy. By the time I rounded the corner seconds later, I saw my dog sliding across the frozen lake toward the small, thawed circle where a dozen or so geese were sounding their alarm at his approach. I realized he was not slowing probably at the same time the thought was occurring to him; dropping my backpack, I ran flat out in pursuit. Of course, Best’s brakes were useless on the sheet of ice (as all brakes are) and he splashed hard, disappearing momentarily beneath the surface as I started my penguin walk across the ice, praying it would hold. All the while, Best was scrambling to get a grip on the slick edge, failing each time and sliding back into the water. When I got within five feet of him, I dropped to my stomach and began to crawl, arms and legs splayed, and tried to keep the panic from my voice as I told him I was coming. By the time I reached him, my usually dark-brindled Dutch was white with the ice that had formed on his fur, and I slid my arm under his front legs and hoisted him to safety. I stripped my coat to rub him down, and then used the towels I keep in my backpack to finish the job, scrubbing him vigorously from the tips of his ears to the tip of his tail to encourage circulation.

By this time Best was altogether impatient with my fussing over him and ready to get back to the business of tracking foxes and menacing magpies. I released him and pointed away from the lake, and he had the good sense to heed the directive. I stood for a moment and watched in amazement at his ability to quite literally shake off that terrifying experience and move on to the next adventure. As my knees quieted their knocking to a mere tremble, I started forward myself, glancing down at my shirt that was smeared in goose droppings and dripping wet. Now that the fear and adrenaline were subsiding, they were replaced by anger at Best having scared at least a handful of years off my life.

My slow progress back to my truck with Best open-mouthed and tongue lolling in self-satisfaction, show pony-prancing beside me, gave me enough time to pinpoint the object of my anger and it was unquestionably not my dog. Or the geese. Or the ice. I had only myself to blame for what could have been one of the worst days of my life.

Too often I brag, if only to myself, about what a smart and attentive shepherd I have and what an unshakeable bond I have with this furry shadow for whom I would take a bullet (and I am certain the feeling is mutual). I am openly (and frequently) critical of people who allow their dogs to run through the neighborhood unleashed despite the cars racing past, or the ones who fail to provide even minimal shelter, nutrition, or health care for their dogs. I say, “They don’t deserve to have a dog,” and “How can they be so foolish and uncaring?” But my error is in not seeing that even those who do give their undivided love and care to those for whom they are responsible can experience horrible things. Despite every heroic effort to avoid them. It takes only one time for our attention to shift or to fail at properly assessing a situation for something irrevocably bad to happen. My tragic flaw was in not recognizing my piety, and I deserved that correction from the Universe. Unfortunately, it was almost at the expense of the dog I love wholeheartedly.

Later that day I realized that my shoulder was sore and a sharp pain shot through it when I tried to reach overhead. It was the arm I had used to lift my water-logged, 70-pound dog earlier, and I knew I’d wrenched it pretty good and needed to go easy on it for a while. I can’t help but think that the pain was also coming from my overuse of that arm to pat myself on the back for all the mistakes I’d never make and chances I’d never take with things that are precious to me. I wonder if ice packs work to ease bruised egos. On second thought, maybe I need that chronic reminder, at least for a while, that we can (and should) all be taken down a peg or two when we get a little too full of our own righteousness.