by Tom Ryan
It was the kind of mountain morning I imagined before moving north. To get out early on the trails and return home by late morning.
All was well in our little world.
As a drop of condensation ran down my mason jar of iced tea, I saw a movement out on the deck out of the corner of my eye.
Aragorn was close to the top step, with Will right below him and within reach.
He was full grown by now, and his massive paws rested on the top of the gate. His head was close to lying on his paws and he was looming there, watching Will. I didn’t move. Slowly, Aragorn turned his head to look at me. I nodded in his direction. He turned back to Will. He studied Will’s tiny body as it rose and fell in slumber. It was just the opposite of his first days in Jackson, when he looked broken even in the innocence of sleep. Now he reflected tranquility and belonging.
I took the photo card out of my computer and looked for my camera.
Damn it! It was on the coffee table. I didn’t want to break the spell, so I didn’t move. Aragorn could have easily ripped through that gate if he wanted, I knew this, but I also knew that was not his intention. I was even surprised that the weight of his paws didn’t loosen it.
I could hear the wind chimes and the birdsong. I heard Will’s snores, and Aragorn’s sniffing.
I wanted a photograph, badly, but when I finally moved to grab my camera, Aragorn left. He padded down the stairs, in no hurry. But he was soon gone.
It wasn’t the bear’s first close encounter with Will that summer, but it was the closest.
The other took place during Bike Week a month before. Every spring the mountains echo with the mechanical roar of motorcycles. I imagine it’s fun for the bikers, but it isn’t much of a pleasure for those who enjoy quiet. When they are here for a week every year, I often wonder how the wildlife handles the noise, how much it disturbs them. But I think I already know.
There were flowers out on the deck—on the little table, hanging from the roof frame and along the railing. The door was closed because of the racket. It was early afternoon, and just inside the door, Will slept on the floor. It was one of those days when he fell asleep right where he was. His rump was pressed against the base of the door.
I was at the stove when I saw Aragorn step onto the deck. I hadn’t seen him since he’d turned into an adult. A beautiful mammal. Kingly, like the Tolkien character I named him after. He rested his chin on the railing and watched the packs of bikers pass below him in both directions.
He turned his attention to the flowers. Through the glass I took photographs of him smelling them, pawing at the pitcher on the table, as if he was pulling it closer. He didn’t bite any of them; he was smelling them, as Will always did.
The bear turned around and looked down on the floor through the glass and saw Will sleeping. He pushed his head closer for a better look. I backed away to see what he would do. Aragorn grabbed Atticus’s large dog bed, a hand-me-down from a friend, which I had left on the deck for Atti to use when I was out there writing or reading. To my surprise, Aragorn lay down on the bed, his fanny pushed against the door, opposite Will’s.
When he settled down, I took some more photographs of Aragorn taking a nap. The view was resplendent. A little white dog backed up against the door, a full-grown black bear in mirror image on the other side.
Aragorn’s serenity wouldn’t last forever. The motorcycles were too much, I’m sure, their roar relentless. During one particularly loud thunder of bikes, he jumped, clearly startled, and dashed down the stairs, heading for the woods.
It was an enchanting moment, but that was the last of Atticus’s big dog bed outside. I was concerned that Aragorn might have left some ticks behind, so I threw it away and placed another one of Atticus’s smaller beds out there for the future.
That was the summer of Aragorn, when we saw him more than any other time. He had a relaxed and stately sway when he moved, and unless he was running, he was stealthy. He was as quiet as a sighing breeze. We’d see him a few times a week, and one morning he was so near I felt his breath on my face.
Will urinated pretty much everywhere. I’m not sure how he did it with the door closed, but it got under the door and the urine sat on the threshold. I had the door open, and was on my hands and knees with cleaning fluid and paper towels. The first I realized Aragorn was close at hand was by his breathing. I looked up. He was only a foot away. The regal black bear was peering at me at eye level.
I’m surprised I didn’t have another puddle to clean up.
I didn’t move at first. He was so close, I didn’t dare. He had never given us reason to fear him before, and I was hoping that was still the case. Ever so cautiously I moved my left leg behind the door and started to ease it closed in slow motion so I didn’t startle him. When I felt I could close the door quickly if I needed to, I reached up to the table for my camera and took a few close-ups of Aragorn. It was thrilling and daunting to look into his brown eyes, to see his world there, and to understand that perhaps we weren’t very different after all.
As much as I wished we could stay like that, as soon as I was done shooting photos, I said to him, “You know you are not supposed to be up here. If you’re not careful, you’re going to get yourself in trouble with someone who doesn’t like you.”
He continued to stare at me, his snout moving. I imagined he was taking in my scent.
I clucked my teeth. “Come on, now, you’ve got to go!” He half turned, then stopped. He looked back at me. “Off you go.”
He retreated down the steps halfway, then the rest, and sat on the grass, just off to the side.
Others in the area knew Aragorn as well. But they didn’t see his gentle side. They’d tell me how he growled at them, huffed, and snorted, and snapped his teeth to warn them away. Some were afraid of him. But I never had that feeling. I had no idea what he was thinking, but I never did feel threatened by him, not even when my face was an easy paw-swipe away.
Just as mysterious was one other morning encounter. Atticus and I were sitting on the stone wall that circled the raised gravel patio downstairs. Blue jays were arguing with the crows. The shrieks and the squawks might have been a racket to some, but to me they were preferable to what takes place in the civilized world.
Butterflies were flitting over Will’s wildflower garden. Bumblebees darted around the buds of the milkweed plants. A hummingbird buzzed into the yard and fed from the nectar feeder outside our second-floor window.
At that time, we had new neighbors, a man and a woman. They were peaceable enough, I guess, but it’s clear they didn’t get along with each other. The man skulked around like a frown, and the woman seemed more than happy when he was gone by the way I’d hear her whistling when he had left for work and she was working in the garden. I didn’t dislike her or him, I just kept to myself. I’d wave to them and say good morning. She’d say hello, he’d grumble.
There was one thing I didn’t like about her, though. It was the way she was pleased that their dog, a large black fellow of indeterminate heritage, chose to pass through the bushes to go the bathroom in our yard. I wouldn’t have minded if it wasn’t for fear of Will stepping in the large piles or falling in them, and the fact that twice, when he came running into our yard, a cyclone of fur and enthusiasm, he came close to knocking Will over.
Will was sleeping inside that day.
In that lazy drifting way a summer day starts with sunlight slanting in from the side, bugs of all sizes were caught in the rays and looked like fairies. It would grow hot a little later, and the cool morning air was reason to loiter. We were just as carefree as the winged souls we were watching.
Atticus leaned into me. I returned the favor. But the further he leaned, the less typical it felt. He looked up at me and then to his left. I followed his look. Fifteen feet away, just behind us, Aragorn moseyed into the yard. He looked over at us casually. I wasn’t sure how I felt about his being just behind us, so I turned to face him.
That’s when he sat dow
n. And like the two of us, he seemed delighted to relax and watch the activity in our yard. The birds, the bugs, the bees visiting Will’s wildflower garden were a study in busyness. Occasionally Aragorn turned to look at us, but always returned his gaze to the garden. When the crows flew to the top of the black ash tree, he turned his head to watch them.
Five, ten, fifteen minutes he sat there, as blissful, it seemed, as we were, as still as Atticus used to sit on a mountain. He moved only his head and his eyes.
I had my camera with me hoping to capture photos of butterflies. It was my lucky day; instead I took a couple of hundred photos of Aragorn. I captured the way he sat and turned his head to look at us. It turned out I didn’t need that many shots of him, because he barely moved from photo to photo. That’s how composed he was.
He was silent and serene until I finally heard him give off a loud huff, then a few snaps of his jaws. That’s when the woman next door came out of her house. He couldn’t see her, because the brush was too thick and high, but he obviously heard her, or maybe it was her scent. He grew louder and more agitated. More huffing, more snapping, always looking toward the neighbor’s yard. His anxiety rose. He rocked back and forth, and then he exploded from his sitting position and ran right into the neighbors’ yard, first at her, and then back toward the river.
She complained to me about how he kept getting into her trash, including the night before, and talked of calling the animal control officer. I suggested that if she did, I’d have to do the same about her shitting dog.
“Maybe it would be wiser to put your trash where the bears can’t get at it. It would be better for you and for them in the long run.”
That couple didn’t last very long next door, and we were left without human neighbors for a long while after that. I didn’t mind a bit.
There are many things in life I’ll never understand, among them Aragorn’s regular visits. My romantic heart would love to imagine it had something to do with Will and his growing innocence. But the truth is, Atticus was the true magnet for wild animals. He’d sit still when around them, and they’d prepare to dash off, but when he never growled or barked or gave chase, they relaxed as well.
Still, no matter what brought the bears to our yard, when Will was around they were kinder to him and more curious. They’d be mesmerized by his dance and look at him interestedly as they passed through, and sometimes I’d see a bear in the brush on the edge of our property, watching him. They’d stop what they were doing to take in his circling dance.
An expert on bears might have an opinion, but I’m not sure I’d care to hear it. I prefer that bit of the unknown—that sliver left for possibilities we may not understand, things that we may leave to our instincts.
For example, as I’ve written, Atticus avoided Will, except on the rarest of occasions. I am convinced that Atti would have been very happy if Will had never come to live with us, and would be happy when he was gone. Still, there is a tenderness to Atticus that I admire, even if much of it remains inexplicable.
I recall a morning at the White Mountain Café, one of the incarnations of the bakery next to Carrie’s flower shop that has changed hands several times in the last six years. Atticus and I went inside so I could order an iced coffee. He sat by the swinging gate leading behind the counter and waited while they brought his bowl of water to him. It was a morning routine. A family of four sat at a nearby table. The girls, about three and five years old, were watching Atticus, and I told their parents that he was good with children and not to worry.
The smaller girl got down on the floor with him.
“Do you mind if she pets you, Atticus?”
He kept his eyes on me while she stroked his hair. She moved closer to his face and looked at him. Her older sister watched from the table, as did the parents. I asked the girl at the table if she wanted to pat Atticus. She shook her head no, but continued to watch her sister.
We saw them the next morning too. Again, after Atticus got his bowl of water, the smaller girl got down on the floor with him. A minute later, her sister joined her and started petting Atticus. It was so natural I didn’t think anything of it.
Atticus turned all his attention to the older sister. He took to her as if they’d known each other before. She’d pet him, then stop, and smile and giggle as he used his nose on her hand to ask for another caress.
I noticed a queer look on their mother’s face as I chatted with the father.
When we left, I wished the family well on the rest of their vacation. But the mother followed us outside.
“Can I talk to you, please?”
“Sure, what’s up?”
“It’s Atticus . . . your dog.”
“What about him?”
Her eyes started to water and she couldn’t speak. She turned to compose herself and put her hand to her mouth. She took some deep breaths.
“My daughter . . . my older daughter . . .” More tears.
She wiped her sleeve across her nose.
“Sorry, but my older daughter’s never done that before.”
“What do you mean?’
“We have no idea what happened to her, but she has an irrational fear of dogs. My husband, he had her on his shoulders at a Memorial Day parade back home, and when a dog went by she started screaming. It wasn’t the first time. It’s always happened. She’s terrified of dogs.”
She blew her nose on the napkin I gave her. “We have been at wit’s end about it. It’s so bad we have her seeing a psychologist. He can’t explain it either. There’s no rational reason for why she gets paralyzed.”
I suggested maybe it was because Atticus was smaller.
“That’s not it. Size doesn’t matter. She screams as if she’s going out of her mind even with the smallest dogs. When you came in with Atticus yesterday, I was surprised she was okay. But to see her on the floor with him, I . . . I . . . I just don’t know. He’s different, isn’t he?”
“I think he is,” I said, smiling, “but I’ve never asked him about it.”
Before we left she threw her arms around my neck and hugged me.
“Thank you. You don’t know how much it means.”
Her husband and her daughters came out then, and the husband came over and shook my hand. “Thank you,” he said. “You have no idea.”
On a night when Will’s seizures wouldn’t stop, coming one after another until he lay in a state of exhaustion, I picked him up and put him on the bed with us. I waited for Atticus to hop down and leave the room; he never liked Will on the furniture and departed as soon I’d pick up Will. Instead he moved closer and laid his head against Will’s. One of his floppy ears covered Will’s face at first. Will had been breathing the way people do when they sob. With Atticus pushing up against him, their heads looking like yin and yang with both lying in opposite directions, Will quickly recovered his composure. We all stayed on the bed until Will wanted to get down.
It was only the third time Atticus had ever approached Will.
The next night, when I brought Will up on the bed with Atticus and me, sure enough, Atticus jumped to the floor and went into the other room. I found him on the couch.
I think the Universe was telling me it’s a good thing I stopped looking for definites in a world of mystery. For it’s not like I could explain much of this anyway. It really did feel like a fairy tale. The interaction of Atticus with Will, being there for him only when he needed it most, just as Marijane predicted. The way Aragorn and the other bears moved gently around Will. More important, how all animals seemed to find peace when near Atticus.
Atticus often calmed wild animals, sitting with them only yards away. There was Amelia, the wayward woodpecker who used to fly to the suet feeder hanging on our back door. When the door was open, she’d have her fill at the feeder and then fly right inside the house. I’d catch her with a small trash can with some cardboard over the top, but after a few times I didn’t need the cardboard, and eventually she just let me use my hands.
But here’s the thing—I always had a sense she was flying inside to get a better look at Atticus. She would land on the feeder with him on a stool right in front of it. No other bird did that. She would let Atticus press his nose against her body without flying off.
During our first summer living in Jackson, a female chipmunk used to flirt with Atticus. He’d be outside and she’d pop up somewhere and squeak at him. He’d race to her, but not before she disappeared. A few seconds later she’d show up in the high grass or the stone wall. He’d run to her again, and she’d disappear. One afternoon she climbed a birch sapling right outside our door. It was only five feet tall. She grasped it and watched Atticus looking at her. She didn’t squeak or act frightened and their eyes met. When he sat, she watched him without moving. Her flirtation didn’t work. He didn’t move until we went back inside to the writing room. I left the door open. He was napping beside my desk. Movement caught my eye. I looked up and saw it was the chipmunk. She had crept to the doorway and was peering around the edge to look at Atticus sleeping. She looked at me. I gave her a shrug. She moved closer to him. Closer. Closer yet. He raised an eyelid. She paused. He opened both eyes and looked at her a foot away. It reminded me of that scene from The Hobbit when Bilbo goes into the Lonely Mountain and comes face-to-face with Smaug, the dragon. But Atticus wasn’t biting. He wasn’t growling. He was merely being Atticus.
He went back to sleep. I was probably too boring for her, because when he decided to nap, she didn’t stick around for me. She stole stealthily across the kitchen and out the back door.
One morning, Atticus and I decided to climb South Doublehead. It was early. When we left Will sleeping at home, the crows cawed at us as we descended the stairs. Just over an hour later, we were sitting on the south ledges near the summit, sharing a pack of peanut butter crackers. We both heard a squawk and looked in the direction of the noise. Where the pine trees stopped, a large crow was sitting on a branch watching us.
