She loved
traveling, delighting in hotels and particularly enjoying room service
breakfasts: scrambled eggs not too firm or a cheddar omelet, a side of bacon,
toast buttered and strawberry jam, hash browns with ketchup, and coffee—light
and sweet. Uncle, our twelve-pound terrier-poodle mix, had little use for me,
but she did appreciate my serving her hotel breakfast. Another thing about
Uncle and hotels stays: that was the only time she would tolerate a leash. Yes,
she did understand the rules that people imposed even if she knew they were
stupid and surely didn’t apply to a dog who knew exactly where to go and what
to do without being told.
For all her
love of travel and of hotels, Uncle (Her paradoxical name my wife and the dog’s
choice. I was told the alternative had been Steve.) had one vacation spot she
particularly loved. That was the Kedron Valley Inn in South Woodstock, Vermont.
We started
going to the Kedron Valley because of their animal policies. Not only did they
welcome dogs, but they had a lovely stable from which we could take great rides
into the rich Vermont countryside. Uncle loved it not only because of the great
breakfasts and the absence of leash rules, but more importantly because it
allowed her to enjoy some of her favorite pastimes.
First and
foremost was drinking. Yes, I mean booze, or to be more exact – Harvey’s
Bristol Cream Sherry. For all her regal ways—and Uncle was sure she was a
descendant of royalty—Uncle was an alcoholic. She liked nothing more than
padding into the lounge, sitting in front of the fire, and being served her
favorite libation. By the way, while she would if necessary drink her sherry
from a lesser vessel, Uncle did prefer stemware, which she never knocked over.
Once the innkeeper
understood Uncle’s wants, he was happy to fill them—even when my wife and I
were not in the room. When we would go for one of those lovely rides, Uncle,
who never walked more than a few hundred yards before settling to the ground
and waiting for one of us to provide carriage service, would slip out of our
room and down to that comfortable lounge. Eventually and with some difficulty,
I convinced Paul, the inn’s owner, that Uncle did not have her own money and
that I would only pay for two drinks a day.
“After two,
you pay,” I said.
Reluctantly
he agreed. After all, she was a regular.
For Uncle the
Kedron was more than drinking. There she could indulge in other favorite
activities. One involved the two-acre swilling pond. Uncle did not swim.
Slogging under the weight of her waterlogged coat was an effort well beneath
her standards. However, she did love to watch our Airedale swim. Jennifer would
swim for hours if allowed, and Uncle—big sister that she was—would bark herself
hoarse providing encouragemen—or was it criticism.
Uncle did not
take kindly to other dogs, and there were many at the Kedron. On each visit,
she quickly established dominance over them, usually by tricking them into
running into stationary objects like automobiles and doors. It was clear that
Uncle remembered which trick each dog would fall for, but it was equally
apparent that none of the housedogs remembered her. There are dogs and then
there was Uncle.
Uncle loved
Vermont in all five seasons: spring, summer, autumn, winter, and mud. It was
one of her great delights to watch us, her humans, try to cope with the various
conditions and activities the seasons offered. What a joyful day it was for her
when we tried cross-country skiing. It was one of the few times Uncle actually
took physical part in one of out activities—carefully coming over to sniff us
each time we ignominiously landed on the ground. Oh, what a wicked grin she had
that day.
Once we were
comfortably ensconced at the Inn, Uncle was always ready for a drive though the
countryside. There she could indulge her only passion that came close to her
love of drink. Uncle was a bovine fanatic. Let us drive by a pasture with cows,
and she would leap about the back seat and sometimes onto my wife’s lap all the
while screeching her excitement.
In fact,
Uncle was so enamored with cows, that when our son bought a pair of leather
pants, it took two of us to remove her from his leg, which she maniacally
clutched and humped.
In case one
wonders, horses, sheep, pigs, chickens—nothing but cows elicited that
excitement.
I know there
are many wonderful things in Vermont, gorgeous countryside, lovely villages,
handsome covered bridges, impressive mountains. Of course we tried downhill
skiing and snowmobiling, bought maple syrup from local trees, and admired the
colors of fall. We did all those things and more, but none bring a smile to my
face or a laugh to my heart that comes close to the joy of those memories of
Uncle at the Kedron Valley Inn.
Ken Weene’s poetry, short stories, and
essays can be found in various print and electronic journals and collections.
His novels, Widow’s Walk, Memoirs From the Asylum, and Tales
From the Dew Drop Inne are published by All Things That Matter Press, along
with two electronic shorts, Two Tales of Terror and El Catrin. Ken
co-hosts It Matters Radio on Thursday evenings and edits “The Write Room
Blog.” A new book, Broody New Englander, should be out soon.
Currently Ken is editing a new novel, Times to Try the Soul of Man, and
working on Red and White, a novel of the Native American experience.
This week Ken offers a great prize: A copy of Tales from the Dew Drop Inne
Comment here to win
(Info
provided by Ken Weene)
