Synchronicity

By Richard Mason Terry

Valimir stood on the small hillock, drawing the clean, fresh air of the countryside into his great lungs. He had been alone now for quite a while, for the first time that he could remember. He really didn’t know much about how he came to be here. He had been riding home from the show with his master. Valimir liked dog shows. The humans were always very nice and appreciative when they saw him. He enjoyed the excitement of the competition, the sights and smells of each new venue, the joy of his master when he won, and the applause of the crowd when he trotted around the ring. He enjoyed spending time with his master on these trips. Getting to sleep on his bed in the hotels, the grooming, and, of course, in the ring. At home, there were always the other dogs that had to be attended to, and the puppies that both Valimir and his master took such joy from. But on the road, there were only the two of them, and he relished those times.

Valimir was seven years old now and had been shown actively for four years. During that time, he had developed a reputation as one of the very best Borzoi ever shown in the area. He had won often and had achieved a measure of fame by being ranked as one of the top Borzoi in the entire country. Of course that meant nothing to Valimir, but the love of his master meant everything to him. That day, Valimir had won another of the big blue ribbons that his master seemed to covet so much. His master had been whistling as he loaded everything into the van and hugged Valimir close before he too, loaded up. As was his wont, Valimir quickly fell asleep, dreaming of glory during the long ride home.

There had been a terrible accident and the van had rolled over several times before coming to rest in a ditch by the side of the highway. Valimir had been thrown free and had run to escape the noise and the other cars skidding to avoid the wreck. He ran until the noise was no longer ringing in his ears. Instinct led him downhill, further and further, until he found a stream where he could drink and relax. He found a pine tree that had been half uprooted in a long ago storm so that the lower branches touched the ground. Underneath the branches lay fragrant pine straw where he made his bed for the night, safe from whatever dangers the night might have held.

The next day, Valimir woke to a world that he had never known. There was no master to let him in or out. No house or yard that was familiar. In fact, nothing was familiar at all. Valimir was hungry, but no one was there to feed him. He set off down a path to try and find his master. Using the powerful ground covering trot that he had shown so often in the breed and group rings, Valimir was able to cover miles of territory quickly and efficiently. He knew that his master had to be looking for him and that he needed to look for him as well.

Suddenly, from under a bush beside the trail, a large rabbit broke cover and began running. A thousand years of instinct grasped the great hound and he broke instantaneously into the double suspension gallop for which his long, lean body and supple back had been designed. With each stride, the distance between Valimir and the rabbit shrunk dramatically. When Valimir caught the rabbit, he grabbed it in his mighty jaws, violently shook it once, and slowed his stride down to a walk. Gently, he laid the dead rabbit on the ground. He looked around, somewhat in amazement at what he had done. Valimir had coursed an artificial lure some when he was younger and he understood that it was just a game. But he loved to run, so it was a game that he freely played.

But this was different. He had killed. Without even knowing why or how. Just because the call of the steppes demanded that he run, that he pursue, that he capture, that he kill. Gently, he nudged the dead rabbit, not a mark on its body. The capture had been perfect. The kill, swift and merciful. The hunger in his belly called to him then and he did what Nature demanded of any predator. Nothing must go to waste. The rabbit had died so that another could live. It was the natural order of things. When Valimir finished feeding, he resumed his search for his master.

The old wolf was also seven, though he was very lucky to have lived that long. Infested with parasites, suffering from an infected tooth, he was scarred from dozens of battles. But he lived on. This was his territory. He had defended it for many years against all kinds of interlopers. Once, he had even battled a mountain lion that dared to enter his domain. The wolf had been grievously wounded in that encounter, but the cougar had left the area and, eventually, the wolf’s wounds had healed.

But the wolf was growing old and tired. Prey could no longer be easily caught. He had been reduced to feeding on whatever carrion he could find. On unwary birds, or small rodents. The days had long since passed that he could run down a rabbit, or battle a deer to the death. His life was nearing its end, and he knew it. Still, the old wolf would not go gently into the night. Whether another stronger beast would take him down, or he succumbed to disease, he would go down fighting. Of that he was sure. But, for the moment, hunger was his primary motivation. And he had just sensed prey that would feed him. Unusual prey to be sure, but his age and his infirmities demanded that he take sustenance how and where he could. He would approach cautiously, but he would make this kill.

Bob Johns had hunted these woods many times growing up. He and Ol Buck were fixtures in all of the small farms and homesteads that dotted these deep forests. Bob with his trusty .22 and Ol Buck with the hang dog expression typical of his breed. Technically, Ol Buck was his dad’s dog. A bloodhound of impeccable pedigree that his dad used to do search and rescue work. Helping the local game wardens track down lost hunters and hikers. But Ol Buck most loved to prowl the woods with HIS boy. As every great dog longs to do. When Bob’s thoughts turned to showing dogs, his father had reluctantly relented and let him enter Ol Buck in the local shows. To his amazement, Bob and Buck started piling up wins in both the conformation ring and in Junior Handling. Buck soon finished his championship, the first of his line ever to do so.

But Ol Buck was still there to be called out to search for the lost weekend warriors. He never missed a find, and he never failed to accompany Bob and his rifle on those hunting trips. His joy was in the people that he loved and engendered a love for dogs in Bob that he would never let go.

Now Bob was all grown up. Ol Buck was long dead and gone. But every time Bob came to these woods, he remembered all of the very special times that he had spent here in his youth with him. And it was easy to remember him. Ol Buck had sired a now long and distinguished line of dual purpose hounds. Dogs that excelled in the breed ring and on the trail. Bob’s current dog, Tracker, was one of the very first hounds to achieve a pass in the difficult variable surface tracking tests and was certified as a search and rescue dog by every organization in the state, and several national ones as well. Bob and Tracker often gave demonstrations at the local schools of how a search dog does their job. While many search and rescue trainers had gone with the versatile and agile Belgian Shepherds or Labrador Retrievers, Bob had stuck with his childhood love, the great and noble bloodhound.

And Bob had not lost his love for the dog show world either. Buck had not only passed on his talent for search, but also the presence, structure, and flawless type that had made him such a success when Bob was just a boy. Ol Buck’s great-great-grandson, Tracker, was a champion in the show ring as well. And did a lot of winning. Just the day before, at one of the local shows, he had gotten a Group Three behind the awesome white Borzoi and a magnificent Afghan. Bob envied the coated hounds. They always looked so beautiful with their long coats trailing behind them as they went around the ring. They often got the nod in the group rings and Bob could count on one hand the number of times that he and Tracker had beaten them. Particularly the Borzoi. So elegant next to his dumpy bloodhound. The Borzoi’s owner was always gracious, win or lose, so Bob felt a little bad about his jealousy. Especially as they were often two of the few owner handlers in the group ring.

Bob reached down and patted Tracker on the head. While Bob could envy the great sighthounds, he would never own one. They had long outlived their usefulness and existed as spoiled pets on their owners’ couch. Bob preferred an honest working dog. One that could play both ways. Like Tracker. This morning, he had been called out on a very serious search. A father and his young son had been missing since the day before. It had been dark before the alert had been sounded, so Bob and Tracker had hit the trails very early this morning, stopping to pick up some clothing from both the father and the son that had been provided by the family. Bob had driven deep into the woods on an old logging road and began his search far from the normal starting points. There were other, less experienced tracking dogs that would start from each end of the looping trail, but Bob and Tracker would go into the deeper woods where the scent might have been obscured by wild game.

And there was wild game in these woods. Bob always carried the .45 pistol that he had carried in the service. The same pistol that he had achieved Expert Marksman awards with. There were bears in these woods, as well as wolves, and even the occasional mountain lion. Bob had never had to kill a roving predator, but he knew he had the skills to do so. And would not hesitate to use them if he felt he and Tracker were being threatened.

Bob and Tracker got lucky right away. They had been on the trail less than an hour when Tracker bugled a find. Looking around, Bob could see nothing in the gloom of the deep forest. But he had made too many searches with Tracker to doubt his ability. Loosening up on the tracking line, Bob gave Tracker permission to pursue the scent trail. Bob began to doubt his trust when Tracker immediately plunged off the trail down a very steep embankment. Bob scrambled down after him and found himself next to the prone figure of an adult male. The man had apparently fallen off the trail, down the embankment, had rolled into the underbrush, and had become covered with leaves and debris. Bob rolled his pack off of his back and pulled the emergency medical kit out of it. He used the penlight to test the man’s responses. He was alive, but apparently concussed, most likely unconscious since the fall. Bob used his radio to call in the find and to request medical assistance. He waited until the rangers arrived with the paramedics in a four wheeler. They stabilized the man and began the long slow trip back to the trail head where he could be evacuated by a waiting chopper to a trauma center some miles away.

But where was the boy?

Jeremy was a pretty experienced woodsman, for a six year old. He and his dad camped out a lot and he really enjoyed the long, rambling hikes through the woods. There was much to see and touch and feel and smell for a young, inquisitive mind. And his dad was infinitely patient with him. Often stopping for hours to explain the mysteries of life, like how caterpillars become butterflies and how perfect a bird’s egg is. Jeremy had learned more about the forest at six than most people would know in a lifetime.

This trip had started out like so many before. A MAN’S weekend. JUST the boys. Leaving mom and his little sister to do “girly things”. Braving the woods with just a sleeping bag and a Swiss Army knife. Jeremy and his dad had arrived at the trailhead where they filed their weekend plans with the rangers, packed their packs, and started down the two day trail. At first, Jeremy stopped and asked about everything. And his dad patiently answered the dozens of questions. As the day wore on, Jeremy saw fewer unfamiliar things to ask about and they walked along singing silly nonsense songs and just enjoying the day, the forest, and each other’s company.

That night, they camped beside the trail and cooked hotdogs and toasted marshmallows over an open campfire. Jeremy went to sleep as happy as he had ever been in his life. The next morning after breakfast, they carefully extinguished the fire, policed the area thoroughly, and started on down the trail. It was after lunch when Jeremy spotted the bird’s nest. He pointed it out to his dad, who walked toward the branch overhanging the trail and tried to pull it down so that Jeremy could see inside the nest without disturbing it. As he reached for it, he slipped and fell off the trail, crashing into the underbrush below.

Jeremy crawled down to his dad as quickly as he could, tears streaming down his face. When he reached his dad, nothing he did could make him respond. He was still breathing, so Jeremy knew he was alive, but that was all he knew. Except for one thing. He had to get help! He had to help his dad! Nothing else really mattered now. So Jeremy started walking, trying desperately to remember the way back to the trailhead. Of course, the first thing he did was crawl up the wrong side of the ravine. From there on, everything got worse. The harder he tried, the more lost he became. It got very dark and he had to stop. He ate some food from his pack and drank some water from his canteen. Then he snuggled down into some deep brush and slept a very troubled sleep.

He woke up early the next morning and noted where the sun was rising. Knowing that the sun rose in the east, Jeremy decided that he needed to head toward the rising sun. Somehow, he was comforted that he had a purpose and a guide.

The old wolf had lived long because he had learned very early to fear humans. Little else in the forest offered such a sure chance of death. But now, he had grown old and infirm. The young one was alone, small and defenseless. Still, the old wolf was cautious. He approached and circled looking for any sign of a trap. Any other human that could come to the aid of the little one. He had killed prey much larger and stronger than this one and with much more ability to defend itself. This would be easy.

Jeremy wandered for hours, pushing his way through the dense underbrush. Suddenly, he pushed into a clearing. Brightening up at his good fortune, he stopped and looked around, trying to see the sun through the thick canopy of trees. Finding it, he shrugged his little pack back onto his shoulders and turned to continue his journey, but his way was blocked by the biggest, meanest looking dog he had ever seen. Jeremy was not really scared of dogs, but this one was much different than any he could remember. And it did not look very friendly. Jeremy was really starting to get scared when he remembered his nursery rhymes. Little Red Riding Hood and the big, bad……Gosh! This is a wolf! Now Jeremy was REALLY scared. Not knowing what else to do, he did the only thing he could do. He dropped to the ground, covered his head with his arms, and prayed.

The old wolf snarled his message of death, but his prey did nothing but wail and cry, huddled on the ground. Still the wolf was cautious, approaching again and again. Circling the little boy to make sure that his attack would be sure. Finally, his confidence boosted by the lack of defense asserted, he gathered himself to leap, thinking to trap the boy beneath him and make a quick kill. As he leapt, he was met in mid air by a blurred streak of white. The old wolf was bowled over and rolled several times before he could regain his feet. Stunned by the blow, he turned to flee, but everywhere he turned, he was met by the slashing jaws and furious assault of a great white beast. Nothing in his experience could have prepared him for this. He had a dozen gaping wounds before the first began to bleed. Still, the beast was on him, relentless in its attack. Breaking free, the wolf tried to run, but he made only a few steps before he once again was blasted from his feet by the charge of the beast. Stunned, the old wolf tried to regain his feet again, but felt the great jaws close on his throat, choking the life from his body. At the end, he felt only…..surprise.

Valimir heard the cries of the little boy and the snarls of the wolf. Fear gripped him as nothing had ever before. He knew he had to DO something and he had to do it FAST. Well, FAST was something he could do. Leaving the hillock at a dead run, Valimir hit top speed in just a few strides, closing the distance between himself and the impending conflict in the merest of moments. His footfalls made virtually no sound on the soft forest floor as he made his way through the trees, weaving and dodging, losing little speed in doing so. When he got to the clearing, he had no chance to decide what to do. No time to roar a challenge. No time to consider what the best course of action might be. He did what his heart told him to do and, without missing a stride, threw his body into the wolf with the impact of a freight train.

The fight was over in moments. Valimir held his grip on the old wolf’s throat until he was sure he was dead. Gently, he released it and stepped back. The old wolf did not move. Valimir had never fought before, not even the little dominance battles that usually occur in a pack of hounds. He had been bequeathed the pack when the senior male had died unexpectedly. He governed the pack with a benign tolerance that belied his strength. The other dogs knew his capabilities and never challenged him. So, this was a first. But he got no satisfaction from it. This was not food. There was no dominance to be gained. No territory to take, or defend. But it HAD been necessary.

Valimir walked slowly back towards the little boy. Jeremy was still screaming in fear, too scared to open his eyes to see what had happened. The great hound stood towering over the little boy and gently nuzzled his hair, snuffling in his ear. When Jeremy finally opened his eyes, he was met by a horrific sight. A HUGE dog, bigger even than the wolf that had tried to attack him, stood over him, covered in blood. But as he looked at the dog, a calm fell over him. Somehow, he knew that the dog meant him no harm. The dog stood calmly as Jeremy slowly, tentatively, reached out a hand and stroked the long muzzle. Gently, Valimir lowered his bloodied head and licked the boy’s face.

Reaching out, Jeremy found the rolled leather collar that Valimir always wore when he was traveling. Valimir stepped over the boy and allowed the boy to use the collar to pull himself up and steady himself against the dog’s side. Jeremy put his right arm over the dog’s back and hugged his neck, holding the collar with his left hand. Whispering in his ear words that only a boy and his dog could ever understand, the two most unlikely friends in the forest began to leave the clearing, together.

Tracker caught the boy’s scent immediately from the area around where they had found Jeremy’s dad. Moving through the dense brush with a determined purpose, he wasted little time on such niceties as Bob’s personal safety and comfort. He had a BOY to find, and he knew he had to hurry! For more than an hour, Tracker pulled Bob through the dense cover with Bob valiantly hanging on to the tracking lead, trusting the bloodhound’s instinct and ability. Then, suddenly, Tracker froze. Bob hurried up to see why Tracker had stopped. He had made no sign of a find, so it had to be something else. When he reached Tracker’s side, he froze as well, in horror, fear, and dread.

There in a clearing, was the body of a dead wolf. Tracker approached slowly, while Bob drew his .45 and followed closely behind. Tracker soon knew the wolf was dead and began an orderly search of the clearing for additional scent trails. Bob knelt beside the wolf to examine the carcass. Bob had never seen such massive injuries inflicted on an animal the size of this old wolf. He had literally been torn half apart. Dozens of wounds all over the body. Great long wounds caused by long sharp teeth. Bob looked around for sign, but the forest floor was too heavily carpeted with leaves and debris for him to see any sign of the animal that had done this. But for once, Bob was afraid. Something incredibly powerful had killed this old wolf, and whatever it was still roamed the forest…..along with a six year old boy.

Tracker found Jeremy’s backpack and bugled the find. Bob rushed over to him and examined the pack. Yes, it was definitely Jeremy’s. It had his name on the outside. Bob holstered his pistol and let Tracker have one good sniff of the backpack. Then he uttered the only word that Tracker needed to hear, “FIND!”

Tracker hit the end of the tracking lead, straining against the harness that he wore. Every fiber of his being, all of the carefully honed instincts and ability from a hundred generations of tracking hounds drove him onward. “Find!” he had been told, and “Find!” he would do! Bob hung on but let the bloodhound determine the course. He could tell that Tracker was dead on a hot trail. The boy was somewhere in the deep forest ahead of them. He just hoped that he was still alive when he found him.

Tracker saw them first. He bugled the alert as Bob was still brushing a branch from in front of his face. Valimir heard the bloodhound and wheeled around, slinging Jeremy to the ground. Stepping forward over the prone figure of the little boy, Valimir prepared to defend him again.

Bob’s first sight of the pair was the one that he feared. Some great beast standing over the prone figure of a child, blood staining its head and fur. Slowly, he drew his pistol and took aim at the beast, hoping against hope that his aim would be true and that the child still lived.

As Bob slowly squeezed the trigger, Tracker surged forward, his powerful legs pulling Bob completely off his feet, then dragging him toward Valimir and Jeremy. He lost his pistol when he lost his balance and could only hang on to the tracking lead as Tracker pulled him face first through the leaves. Eventually, the pulling stopped. Bob looked up to see a very long nose looking down at him in comic disbelief. A long, pink tongue darted out and gave him a big slurp across the nose. Bob looked up and saw both Tracker and the great white hound gently wagging their tails. As Bob examined the big hound more closely, he was able to identify it as some kind of a sighthound, but with all of the blood, twigs, leaves, and mud, he more closely resembled a haystack at a slaughterhouse. Then he spied the collar. He reached his hand out slowly, and the Borzoi turned his head slightly in submission. Grabbing the collar, he read the stenciled name, Valimir.

“Well, I’ll be! Did you do that damage back in the clearing, big fellah?” he asked. Valimir just turned away and went back to Jeremy, who was pushing Tracker away with giggles and protests. Bob reached for his radio and contacted the ranger station. “I found the boy!” he said. “And I think I just found a hero! Send the chopper in on my Geo signal and be ready to pick up two people and two very deserving hounds.”

“I don’t know how you got here, Valimir”, Bob said. “But I’m sure that little Jeremy here is awfully glad that you were. And so am I. Not many dogs could have done what you did back there. Certainly not many pampered purebred showdogs. Guess function and purpose doesn’t have to die, just because you are beautiful. And, you are beautiful, you know?”

Valimir just walked around Jeremy one time, marking a circle around him in the leaves, then lay in a protective arc around him. Yes, he knew his function. Knew it as well then as he had earlier. He had protected a life. Been ready to give his own, for another. No nobler purpose ever existed for ANY dog.

Some months later, Valimir’s master met Jeremy, his dad and Bob at the ranger station at the trail head. He had not been badly hurt in the car wreck, but had spent many hours searching for Valimir until the call came from the rangers that he had been found. Bending down, he placed a large box on the ground at Jeremy’s feet. “I talked it over with your dad and with Valimir. They both agree that it is time for you to get your own dog.” Eagerly, Jeremy opened the box. Blinking in the bright sunlight, a small white puppy wiggled his way into Jeremy’s arms. “A boy needs a good dog,” Bob said, thinking back to his own childhood. “Yes”, said Valimir’s master. “And every good dog deserves a boy that loves him. I can’t possibly part with Valimir. He is so very much a part of my life. But I can pass on a part of him, just as he did through this litter of puppies.”

“You know, “ said Bob. “I almost shot Valimir. And would have if Tracker hadn’t interfered. When I saw the way that wolf had been totally destroyed, I was sure that only a mountain lion could have done that kind of damage. When I saw him standing over that little boy with blood all over him, I could only think of killing that evil beast before he killed the child. Hard to believe that such a beautiful show dog could have such awesome ability, courage, and willingness to defend an innocent child.”

“Actually, Bob,” Valimir’s master said. “You are the one who should have been LEAST surprised. It is people like you and your dad that have nurtured the bloodhound breed all of these years and made sure that the breed was still capable of doing the work for which it was originally developed. You have a darn nice show dog with an enviable show record, especially considering how little time you devote to it. And he is still out here on a regular basis, doing search and rescue with you and the rangers to help make the world a better place, just like his ancestors did hundreds of years ago. It’s no different with the Borzoi. Although the need for coursing wolves and other large game is pretty much non-existent in our modern society, many breeders seek proof that our breed is still a functional hunting breed. I know that the breeders who came before me tried very hard to produce beautiful dogs with sound temperaments and outstanding structure that had the instinct to hunt, kill, and protect. Certainly, I have tried my best to continue their legacy with my own dogs. Valimir is just the latest product of that long and careful process. Many dogs would have answered the call that he did. He just happened to be at the right place at the right time. Funny the way things turn out sometimes.”

Leaning down to Jeremy, who was lost in puppy kisses, Valimir’s master said, “You take good care of this pup, son. And he’ll take good care of you. And if you decide that you want to share your life with dogs, Bob and I will always be here for you.”