It’s not easy for the casual tourist to see a moose in Vermont. —Online Trip Advisor Not the bus-sized moose down by the low-lying creek the locals swore it would cross, but a dog, a golden retriever trotting along, tail proud, a tree limb between his teeth—sans collar, sans master— on duty nonetheless:
the limb a ponderous
branching thing wobbling above his head. We stood dumb-struck (what didn’t compute?) till one of us shouted: “A moose!” and, lo, the blind could see. “A heckuvamoose!” At which the dog paused to look at us—all laughter & high-fives. No time for this, said a flick of his tail, and weaving his way past scrub and ferns, he trotted on. All eyes strained after him as at full sail, he veered into woods, our glee subsiding to a wondering hush,
soon shy—
which argued against lingering, yet linger we did, through a jangle of keys and a toddler’s whimper. Then a man clapped once:
Finis.
This article appears in August 2017 Issue.
