Kiva Leaves Home

There aren’t many choices for a dog. When I left the only home I’d ever known, no one asked me if I wanted to go, and if I did, where I’d like to go. One day, we just went.

Looking back, it started months ago. My human parents pulled out boxes and tubs of old records and papers. They smelled of aged regret and reckless living. Bags and bags of paper and things were thrown away. Photos were removed from frame and glass.

Next, people came over to our house to buy things. Mom was in her element. She gave the pastor a great deal on my dad’s pants and shirts, and told stories about the backgammon game he never won, and the crossbow that my mom’s son’s viola playing girlfriend hit dead center on her first shot, and the camera backpack given out by the army that dad got in Bosnia, and the red-lined insulated pants that kept mom from ever getting cold all the years out on four wheelers in the winter on King Salmon Creek Trail, and the plum dress with shoes she wore once at her best friend’s wedding. So many stories. Some of the people smelled thick with alcohol. Some didn’t smell safe, so I barked. Some bartered with her, but usually the other way, mom offering a low bargain price and the buyer insisting on paying more. A few people talked about mom opening a store one day: The Story Store, where everything has a story. I think she’d enjoy that.

Then everything was turned inside out with more throwing away. So many smells. Food they’d forgotten existed. And my food bin was cleaned out.

I knew big changes were ahead, but I didn’t know what.

The burgundy Toyota FJ that my dad would careen onto the beach was gone one day. A man and his wife came by to drive it and a few days later it was gone. The license plate was GFM 311, which my parents always said was “Gift For Me, March 11” because it was my for my dad’s birthday. The woman who would be driving it was getting it for her birthday, too, only it was “Gift For Me, September 11.”

The little green Subaru was the only vehicle left to drive and my parents kept loading it with stuff. Trash for the dump. Then tubs and bins to send. Then boxes to send.

One night, my mom walked with me to the Overlook. She looked me straight in the eyes and said that it might be my last time on the trail. I loved my tundra world with its hares and spruce hens to chase and its wild, wet growing smells.

The last day was the worst. I spent the entire day, by choice, in my kennel which had been moved to the entryway. Everything was torn apart and mom was cleaning every square inch. Dad got really upset with her and I wanted to stay out of it.

Near dinner time, we loaded up the Subaru for the last time and went to the PenAir counters to get ready to board the airplane. It was my second time on a plane. I remembered that I didn’t like it, but at the end my parents were there and everything was okay. They lifted me while in my kennel and carted me into a large hold where I was stuffed together with all kinds of things and smells, but far from my parents. And it was dark. The plane began to move and it made my stomach feel funny. I curled up into my bed and tried to sleep so that the time would go faster.

Soon, the plane rolled down to the ground and then stopped moving and I was lifted out to see a familiar smiling, fuzzy face right away. Patrick! He used to play with me when I was a young dog. I didn’t think he recognized me, but then he came back to give me a pet. He’s a pilot, but for now he works as a cargo ramper for PenAir in the big city.

The Anchorage Airport! So many people, animals, smells, sounds.

I guarded my mom while my dad got a truck. They put me in my kennel and lifted me into the back, right out in the open air of car honks and tire swooshes and waste fuel smells.

They took me to a new much smaller home. My bed was brought in. It smelled damp and moldy. My parents did something they never do: watched television.

We spent seven days there. My parents took me everywhere they went and today they started packing up again! They put me and my kennel into the back of another truck. This one had a cover over it. They drove me to an airport place and lifted me out. I couldn’t control my shaking. I didn’t want to go back into one of those planes again.

Instead of a plane, they lifted me into the back of the covered truck along with a lot of stuff. It had a familiar smell. Wait a minute. This was the stuff they sent out from home back in King Salmon. Some of it was a box of my dog food. They put that right next to me.

We returned to where we lived in Anchorage only to finish clearing it out and leave it behind.

They put my bed inside the truck, right between my mom and dad, and I could touch them and be right with them and sleep whenever I want. The truck windows are huge, so it’s easy to see out, and there is a window straight up above my head. So many towering snow salted mountains going by, shimmering golden leaves on the birch trees, and cool green glacial water in the river beside us.

I wonder where my home will be.

Mom said that this was my home now. A truck? Can a truck be a home?

I guess I’m going to find out.

Maude’s parents have a garden with just about everything. Her dad dug out gold, red and purple potatoes for dinner. The carrots remained in the ground. And there were slugs everywhere!