Beasts and Violins

Camping with Mad, Far From Montana

76 Camping with Mad, Far From Montana She comes from the lake steaming like a logging truck at dawn. She’s thick. All muscle and belly. Her head is a little too small for her body. There’s a black spot on her back, a saddle for a dwarf cowboy, but she wouldn’t let anyone ride. She hates guests more than I do. Her side has healed where she was mauled by the loose Rottweiler in Missoula, almost a year ago. Silver fur has covered the scars left by entry points of the drainage tube I cleaned by the hour for three days, to see how she would recover. I fed her chicken and rice and slept some beside her. She peed down my chest, before, when I hefted her from the after hours vet’s office, drowsy with drug, her cattle dog tongue dangling over my shoulder. It wasn’t like carrying a child to bed. No, it wasn’t like that at all. It was like lifting myself from that town. From the charmless job rolling sushi in a casino restaurant and the indifferent girlfriend. 77 Lifting myself from the oncoming winter and weather inversions that clogged Big Sky Country for weeks with wood-smoked, diesel sickness. At night by the campfire, Maddy sits just outside the light, whiffing the dark. She rises at the rustle of leaves. A cougar would kill her. Rip her apart the way no Rottweiler could. But every good dog needs a chore. I imagine she’s only trying to square the deal. ...