The Lion’s Neighbor
The Not-So-Fiction Story of Dorjee the Dog
If there were a contest about such things, Dorjee would be the winner. At least in one category: the happiest dog.
Dorjee is a silver wolf dog who lives on the porch of the hilltop house, at the crest of the mountain. The house itself is not simply a structure. It is a wooden creature grown out of the ground and perched atop the hill, overlooking the meadow with square eyes.
Across the meadow and for as far as one can see– east, west, and straight ahead– there are the hills, the ones in front, the ones behind them, and the ones beyond. There are the velvet slopes and the mossy drop-offs, not a single one repeated in shape or color: tarblue, windygreen, wingsoft gray, and cloudfog turquoise. For Dorjee, these are the colors of home, and that is how he knows beauty.
At the crack of dawn, as darkness dissolves into delicate daylight and the blackbird announces a new beginning, Dorjee leaves his pelt bed and sits at the very edge of the drop-off, his spine straight, his ears sharp. He likes to look on as his forest wakes up, long before the sun climbs atop the hills. In the slow drift towards wakefulness, fine mist dresses the ridges and sinks everything, even the meadow, in a mystery so intricate that Dorjee can only see the needle fingers of the tallest redwoods, reaching up above the fog.
When the last trees slip out of their mist-gowns and the hills stand proud in sun and color, Dorjee leaves the top of the ridge and goes on with his business. Since this entire forest is his homeland, he has many places to visit in a day, but no schedule to keep. On most days, he first takes a walk to the creek. Sometimes, he and Greg go together but, to tell the truth, Dorjee likes to go to the creek on his own. Down and down the windy path, shaded by the tanoaks, past the large logs soaked with overnight dew and popping wooden sighs like elders with arthritis, past the empty fox house and the steller jay’s nest, past the valley where the faraway neighbors– a family of slender bobcats– tend to their newborn.
Dorjee is a silver wolf dog who lives on the porch of the hilltop house, at the crest of the mountain. The house itself is not simply a structure. It is a wooden creature grown out of the ground and perched atop the hill, overlooking the meadow with square eyes.
Across the meadow and for as far as one can see– east, west, and straight ahead– there are the hills, the ones in front, the ones behind them, and the ones beyond. There are the velvet slopes and the mossy drop-offs, not a single one repeated in shape or color: tarblue, windygreen, wingsoft gray, and cloudfog turquoise. For Dorjee, these are the colors of home, and that is how he knows beauty.
At the crack of dawn, as darkness dissolves into delicate daylight and the blackbird announces a new beginning, Dorjee leaves his pelt bed and sits at the very edge of the drop-off, his spine straight, his ears sharp. He likes to look on as his forest wakes up, long before the sun climbs atop the hills. In the slow drift towards wakefulness, fine mist dresses the ridges and sinks everything, even the meadow, in a mystery so intricate that Dorjee can only see the needle fingers of the tallest redwoods, reaching up above the fog.
When the last trees slip out of their mist-gowns and the hills stand proud in sun and color, Dorjee leaves the top of the ridge and goes on with his business. Since this entire forest is his homeland, he has many places to visit in a day, but no schedule to keep. On most days, he first takes a walk to the creek. Sometimes, he and Greg go together but, to tell the truth, Dorjee likes to go to the creek on his own. Down and down the windy path, shaded by the tanoaks, past the large logs soaked with overnight dew and popping wooden sighs like elders with arthritis, past the empty fox house and the steller jay’s nest, past the valley where the faraway neighbors– a family of slender bobcats– tend to their newborn.
Now that it is springtime, the creek runs full and mighty, hurrying towards the river, and a newly arrived robin sings with a full chest, intoxicated with the joy of living. Dorjee likes the birds’ songs, and sometimes stops to listen. In the spring, they sing about the scarlet-crested woodpecker, have just come back from faraway lands, and for them home is everywhere. For others, like the old spotted owl and the coarse-voiced raven, this forest is the only mother, like it is to Dorjee.
If he’s in the right mood and when impulse overcomes him, Dorjee chases after the chirpy sparrows, rockets up the slope and leaves clumps of his furry coat to the wild rose and the gooseberry. In exchange, the wild rose gifts him her most delicate buds and pins them to his thick-haired back. This is Dorjee’s way to bring flowers to the river: once he swims trough the creek and gets to the other shore, one can see the rose buds floating downstream, towards where the creek meets the river.
So great are the transformations in his forest each day that, on some mornings, Dorjee is overwhelmed: so many changes to keep up with, so much to attend to. One has moved to a new burrow, another has just welcomed the new brood, and third’s weaving a new nest after a storm blew her dear home to the ground. On some days, there are those looking for a sister who has gone astray, or–as Dorjee suspects– become the mountain lion’s last night’s dinner.
Dorjee saw the mountain lion’s home once when Greg was clearing some fallen branches blocking a path on the other side of the slope, and- boom!- in the lion’s home they found themselves uninvited. The owner, luckily, wasn’t there. The only furniture in his room: the large bones of wild pigs and the skeletons of jackrabbits and slender deer.
Dorjee hasn’t seen the mountain lion or his wife, but he had once come to realize that wolf dogs and lions were faraway relatives. It was on the day Greg’s friends had come to visit. While Greg went on his daily trip to town, his friends took a hike up the steepest slope. A proud and knowledgeable host, Dorjee raced exuberant towards the peak, gasping guests left far behind pulling up roots and gripping branches to continue uphill. At the top, they all stood quiet, at once exhausted and invigorated, and looked down at the valleys where wind made waves in tall grass and turned meadows into yellow-green seas.
A young deer appeared out of the shaded shelter of black oaks and fir trees into the sunlit meadow below them, and wandered about in gentle little steps. Nothing could have prepared Dorjee for this encounter but his nature. Suddenly, all he could see was the deer’s graceful frame. The blood of his forefathers raced into his head, his gaze fixated, his spine tautened, and every muscle of his body prepared for the run.
Before there could be anything else, there was the leap, the wrestling, the groaning, and the struggle for life. Within seconds, Dorjee was on top and, way too soon, the game was over for there was no fighting back. The clear-blue eyes of a wolf locked with the hazelnut eyes of a young deer, now the color of surrender, and, for a beat, life and death stood face to face. Dorjee hesitated, as if a miracle would happen and a hunter would spare a life. But a hunter is forever a hunter and the law of nature always the same.
Intoxicated with the rush of teeth penetrating flesh, Dorjee stood up, strong and mighty atop his prey. The frenzied shouts of Greg’s friends finally reached him, and he came to realize two things at once: it was him they’d been calling out to the whole time, and he had done something terribly wrong. Now that they all stood soundless and looked on, Dorjee grew confused: what was a dog to do with a lifeless body beneath him, warm blood covering his muzzle and his whisks? A moment of great remorse overcame him. He looked about, lowered his ears, shoved a guilty tail between his legs, and slowly walked away from his kill towards where Greg’s friends stood in silence.
It was in that silence that the ears of a wolf dog attended to the sounds of a new now: there was the rumble of the creek down below that excited Dorjee with the anticipation of his evening swim; there was the roar of an engine gasping up the dirt road that announced Greg’s return from town; there was the yellow and black butterfly that left herself to the wind, floating helter-skelter from a poppy to a thimbleberry bush to a fairy cup, and Dorjee surrendered to the urge to chase her. With that, the deer was forgotten and so was sadness. Like a child, Dorjee forgot the previous moment as soon as the new one rolled in new adventures. And in the now, a happy dog he was.
But every so often, even the happiest dog in the world gets the blues. When Greg’s truck blows a cloud of exhaust and rolls down the dusty road, Dorjee sits lonely on the porch, saddened and bemused: what is this important business that he’s not invited to? And, will Greg be back or a silver wolf dog will be abandoned? But soon there is plenty to keep him busy: a dash through the valley with his neighbor dog friends, a gold-red setter and a spotted greyhound, or a dive in the creek followed by a sunbath in the company of sleek-back lizards. And there again, Dorjee is the happiest dog in the world.
Once upon a time he insisted that Greg take him along (he stamped his paw and howled horrendously as Greg prepared to leave.) Once in the truck, he jerked and jolted down the bumpy road, tongue stuck out for stuffy backseat air. Out on the even, wide freeway Dorjee watched, in shock, the sleek metal beings flying by on wheels, and, further down, the rectangular structures of cement pressed back to back. Caged in the truck while Greg disappeared amongst the others of his kind hurrying hectically about, Dorjee wished for only one thing: to be back in his forest.
Later, when he slipped out of the truck, near comatose from the overwhelming townscape and the long ride home, he ran uphill, as fast as he could, to the top of the ridge. He looked down at the valleys and the gold-fringed hills as the sun sunk behind them; he watched the solitary flight of a hawk above the meadow, listened to the orchestra of crickets compete with the frog ensemble, and there, at the top of the hill, in the scent of dry hay, star lilies, and cream bush, Dorjee found the peace of home again. Off the merry-go-round, far from haste, chaos, and cement, life was complete and he knew who he was.
If he’s in the right mood and when impulse overcomes him, Dorjee chases after the chirpy sparrows, rockets up the slope and leaves clumps of his furry coat to the wild rose and the gooseberry. In exchange, the wild rose gifts him her most delicate buds and pins them to his thick-haired back. This is Dorjee’s way to bring flowers to the river: once he swims trough the creek and gets to the other shore, one can see the rose buds floating downstream, towards where the creek meets the river.
So great are the transformations in his forest each day that, on some mornings, Dorjee is overwhelmed: so many changes to keep up with, so much to attend to. One has moved to a new burrow, another has just welcomed the new brood, and third’s weaving a new nest after a storm blew her dear home to the ground. On some days, there are those looking for a sister who has gone astray, or–as Dorjee suspects– become the mountain lion’s last night’s dinner.
Dorjee saw the mountain lion’s home once when Greg was clearing some fallen branches blocking a path on the other side of the slope, and- boom!- in the lion’s home they found themselves uninvited. The owner, luckily, wasn’t there. The only furniture in his room: the large bones of wild pigs and the skeletons of jackrabbits and slender deer.
Dorjee hasn’t seen the mountain lion or his wife, but he had once come to realize that wolf dogs and lions were faraway relatives. It was on the day Greg’s friends had come to visit. While Greg went on his daily trip to town, his friends took a hike up the steepest slope. A proud and knowledgeable host, Dorjee raced exuberant towards the peak, gasping guests left far behind pulling up roots and gripping branches to continue uphill. At the top, they all stood quiet, at once exhausted and invigorated, and looked down at the valleys where wind made waves in tall grass and turned meadows into yellow-green seas.
A young deer appeared out of the shaded shelter of black oaks and fir trees into the sunlit meadow below them, and wandered about in gentle little steps. Nothing could have prepared Dorjee for this encounter but his nature. Suddenly, all he could see was the deer’s graceful frame. The blood of his forefathers raced into his head, his gaze fixated, his spine tautened, and every muscle of his body prepared for the run.
Before there could be anything else, there was the leap, the wrestling, the groaning, and the struggle for life. Within seconds, Dorjee was on top and, way too soon, the game was over for there was no fighting back. The clear-blue eyes of a wolf locked with the hazelnut eyes of a young deer, now the color of surrender, and, for a beat, life and death stood face to face. Dorjee hesitated, as if a miracle would happen and a hunter would spare a life. But a hunter is forever a hunter and the law of nature always the same.
Intoxicated with the rush of teeth penetrating flesh, Dorjee stood up, strong and mighty atop his prey. The frenzied shouts of Greg’s friends finally reached him, and he came to realize two things at once: it was him they’d been calling out to the whole time, and he had done something terribly wrong. Now that they all stood soundless and looked on, Dorjee grew confused: what was a dog to do with a lifeless body beneath him, warm blood covering his muzzle and his whisks? A moment of great remorse overcame him. He looked about, lowered his ears, shoved a guilty tail between his legs, and slowly walked away from his kill towards where Greg’s friends stood in silence.
It was in that silence that the ears of a wolf dog attended to the sounds of a new now: there was the rumble of the creek down below that excited Dorjee with the anticipation of his evening swim; there was the roar of an engine gasping up the dirt road that announced Greg’s return from town; there was the yellow and black butterfly that left herself to the wind, floating helter-skelter from a poppy to a thimbleberry bush to a fairy cup, and Dorjee surrendered to the urge to chase her. With that, the deer was forgotten and so was sadness. Like a child, Dorjee forgot the previous moment as soon as the new one rolled in new adventures. And in the now, a happy dog he was.
But every so often, even the happiest dog in the world gets the blues. When Greg’s truck blows a cloud of exhaust and rolls down the dusty road, Dorjee sits lonely on the porch, saddened and bemused: what is this important business that he’s not invited to? And, will Greg be back or a silver wolf dog will be abandoned? But soon there is plenty to keep him busy: a dash through the valley with his neighbor dog friends, a gold-red setter and a spotted greyhound, or a dive in the creek followed by a sunbath in the company of sleek-back lizards. And there again, Dorjee is the happiest dog in the world.
Once upon a time he insisted that Greg take him along (he stamped his paw and howled horrendously as Greg prepared to leave.) Once in the truck, he jerked and jolted down the bumpy road, tongue stuck out for stuffy backseat air. Out on the even, wide freeway Dorjee watched, in shock, the sleek metal beings flying by on wheels, and, further down, the rectangular structures of cement pressed back to back. Caged in the truck while Greg disappeared amongst the others of his kind hurrying hectically about, Dorjee wished for only one thing: to be back in his forest.
Later, when he slipped out of the truck, near comatose from the overwhelming townscape and the long ride home, he ran uphill, as fast as he could, to the top of the ridge. He looked down at the valleys and the gold-fringed hills as the sun sunk behind them; he watched the solitary flight of a hawk above the meadow, listened to the orchestra of crickets compete with the frog ensemble, and there, at the top of the hill, in the scent of dry hay, star lilies, and cream bush, Dorjee found the peace of home again. Off the merry-go-round, far from haste, chaos, and cement, life was complete and he knew who he was.
**********
Dorjee and I first met on the porch of the wooden house hidden where I stood wordless before the gorgeousness of his forest. I had arrived for a three-day visit with his master. “Welcome to my land,” Greg said, but it didn’t take long before I knew who the real master of this forest was.
On early mornings, while Greg, the lone prince of the wooden hilltop palace, was still asleep, Dorjee and I took to the forest. I followed him down hidden pathways and lost myself amidst his fragrant kingdom. Down the hurried creek, past lilies, thimbleberry bush, and weeping willows, I watched him leap from rock to rock and wake birds in their dreams. I watched him run and hop and sniff about, delighted in each step, alert for the slightest of sounds. His young muscles craved each jump. His soul of a wolf was worriless, free.
“This land has long waited for a princess,” Greg the Lone Prince said when it was time for me to leave. “Will you be back?”
Down and down the windy road, past the meadow and the valley, I left the magical forest behind. A wretched howl echoed from the porch of the wooden hilltop house.
I had come to fall in love with a prince, but fell in love with his dog. By the time darkness engulfed the forest, my wolf lover would grow forgetful of the flash of sadness my departure had brought him, and dive into his forest for a new adventure. Dorjee, the happiest dog.
On early mornings, while Greg, the lone prince of the wooden hilltop palace, was still asleep, Dorjee and I took to the forest. I followed him down hidden pathways and lost myself amidst his fragrant kingdom. Down the hurried creek, past lilies, thimbleberry bush, and weeping willows, I watched him leap from rock to rock and wake birds in their dreams. I watched him run and hop and sniff about, delighted in each step, alert for the slightest of sounds. His young muscles craved each jump. His soul of a wolf was worriless, free.
“This land has long waited for a princess,” Greg the Lone Prince said when it was time for me to leave. “Will you be back?”
Down and down the windy road, past the meadow and the valley, I left the magical forest behind. A wretched howl echoed from the porch of the wooden hilltop house.
I had come to fall in love with a prince, but fell in love with his dog. By the time darkness engulfed the forest, my wolf lover would grow forgetful of the flash of sadness my departure had brought him, and dive into his forest for a new adventure. Dorjee, the happiest dog.
