Guilt Trip

We tried to sneak out of the house with just Charlie.  Things were going as planned.  Chase was sound asleep in the bedroom.  Abby was on the back deck.  I grabbed a leash and The Englishman had Charlie tucked under his arm.  Hand on the door to the garage, I felt a tail brush against my leg.  A large and bushy tail.  A wagging tail.  Abby's tail.  

I put the leash on her and took her on a driveway walk:  up and down the driveway we ran several times.  On one of the trips back, I noticed Chase was in the yard.  The Englishman placed Charlie in the back of the Jeep and herded Chase into the house.  I started to go back into the garage but Abby dug her feet in and pulled toward the Jeep.  I tugged, she tugged.  I handed the leash to The Englishman and told him to put her in the house.  She tugged toward the Jeep one time and he helped her onto the backseat.  Our daytrip to the parents' house had one more passenger.  A very guilty looking passenger that kept Charlie quite warm on the 2 hour drive.

Abby loved the freedom of South Carolina and was able to run through the woods quite freely.  She was also willfully disobedient when we called for her to return.  On this trip the problem was solved when a friend arrived with his new puppy.  All it took was for me to hold the puppy, covering him with coos and kisses and Abby was once again my shadow dog.  

The return trip to Georgia was an easy repeat of the morning.  Charlie snuggled with Abby and when we arrived, Chase was dreaming lazily on his dog bed in the living room.

"A sly piece of good luck, which nobody knows of is delightful." Publilius Syrus

Dementia Dog Dachshund

Because this is our second dog to develop dementia, we saw the signs much earlier with Charlie and quickly accommodated for this development.  All three slept in the room with us now:  Abby on guard, Chase soundly sleeping the night away and Charlie contained in a crate for his safety and our sanity.

On a particular night, the Englishman decided that he wouldn't close the crate because Charlie didn't appear to be wandering anymore.  I wasn't sure how he came to this conclusion since the mere fact that locking the crate kept Charlie from wandering, but I digress...

At 3 AM, Charlie exited the crate and bumped blindly into Abby's bed.  Charlie growled and snapped.  Abby shrieked her ungodly high pitched ear splitting, crystal breaking scream which woke up the entire neighborhood with the exception of the Englishman.  I fumbled out of bed and felt my way to Abby.  Charlie then walked into a wall and growled and attacked this new offense.  I located Charlie by his growls and barks.  I reached out to touch his back and he lunged at me with his needle nose filled with shiny crocodile teeth.  I tried again before yelling at my husband to turn on a light before I lost a finger.  I did this in a most dignified manner.

Lights on, Chase snored, Abby whined and I was able to safely put Charlie back in his crate. I swear I could hear muffled laughter from my husband.

And this is why we don't release the dachshund until daylight.

Close to the Bone

The English boy helped me set up the Halloween decorations at the beginning of October.  All of the skeletons came back out of the closet for the season.  Because the work began much later in the day, it was dark before we finished.

The next morning, I put Abby on her leash for her morning walk from the front door to the end of the driveway.  Dawn had yet to break and a slight mist was clinging to the autumn grass.  Abby sniffed and snorted as she searched for the perfect spot.  Suddenly she froze.  A low growl began in her throat.  I searched the yard and street for the intruder:  deer?  rabbit?  jogger?  the evil cat from next door?  I saw nothing but Abby crouched and pulled me slowly across the yard toward the skeletons carrying a body bag.  As she stealthily approached, I was still doubtful that she thought these were the front yard intruders.  She cautiously touched her nose to a femur and rapidly jumped back as if bitten by a rattlesnake.  

It took a few days to convince Abby that there was no danger, but make no bones about it, these skeletons looked real enough to this guard dog of ours.

Quilting Cat

 Checkers, a large black and white cat with soft, fluffy fur, loved to be in the center of things in my mom's sewing room.  Mom and I would spend hours in this bright room working together on our quilts.  A favorite style was the "quilt as you go" pattern.  This involved working in long rows  where you would sew the front, batting and backing all together from one long, wide strip to the next.  When finished with all of the rows, you simply squared the quilt and added the binding.  

This method required a lot of pins.  Mom and I would work from one end and pin the pieces to each other until we reached the far end.  It was then that we noticed there were no pins at the beginning...or the middle.  All the pins were sticking out of the mouth of the black and white cat like miniature swords.  The more we pinned, the faster the cat removed them.  This earned him the nickname "Quilting Cat" but not because he was helpful.  We had to ban him from the quilting room but he was a clever quilting cat.  Checkers would go outside and jump onto the window sill, watching and howling his displeasure with his exile.

I still make quilts and sometimes, when I am pinning my pieces, I turn my head to check that all the pins are still in place.  You just can't tell when another quilting cat will enter your life.

Dog Guard

Charlie had some cognitive issues that came with age and potential dementia.  At times he would get lost in the house, stuck in corners, cords, furniture and even the water bowl.  He was at his best during the day and when outside, he stuck close to the house.  Usually…

And then we lost him.  A cognitively impaired, fully deaf, partially blind dachshund.  The Englishman grabbed a flashlight and pushed his feet into an old pair of sneakers.  “He’s not in the street” he called to me.  We searched the bushes, straining to hear Charlie in the early morning darkness.  Even the birds were not awake.  Operation Find Charlie moved to the back yard.  I gingerly poked the foliage trying not to walk into spider webs. 

“I see him!” shouted the Englishman.  A small brown dog was teetering on the edge of our pond.  And then the dog disappeared.  The Englishman sprinted, Bay Watch style, and jumped into the pond. 

“I saved him just before he went under!” The Englishman declared.

He emerged with the flashlight in one hand and a sopping wet Charlie tucked under his arm.  Charlie’s paws were still rapidly paddling.  The Englishman ran toward the house instructing me to “get a dog towel”.  The shower spray rapidly warmed and he jumped into it with the shivering dog.  I could hear him talking to Charlie and apologizing for not getting him as clean as possible.  The warm and dripping dog was handed to me and I wrapped him in his towel before gently blowing him dry.

At some point in our journey with our four legged companions roles became reversed.  What once was a great guard dog now needed a Dog Guard.  And it seemed that this morning, that title belonged to The Englishman. 

The Dog Knows

Dogs know when they look ridiculous.

When I was a teenager, my mom took our very fluffy Keeshond to the groomer for a summer shave.  The resulting look was a lion head with leg warmers.  He hid for days.

I tried many costumes on Chase.  He cheerfully wore them in the house, sheltered from the judgement of strangers.  He had a tuxedo, a wizard hat, bunny ears and red, glittery devil horns.  My vacation to Key West happened to occur during their annual Fantasy Fest.  All the glitter and gaudiness was out in full force.  I thought it was a perfect moment to debut the devil horns.  Chase allowed me to put them on his head.  He obediently followed me out the door and down the brick pathway, lined with privacy fencing to the street.  Upon reaching the street, he violently tossed his head back and forth until he was free of the horns.  Undeterred, I put them back on his head and began dragging him toward Duval Street.  Chase tossed the horns again, pressed a paw on the top to secure them in place and ripped them to shreds.  Bits of red material and white fluff littered the street.  I have never made him wear another costume.  Ever.  

"They say the smart dog obeys but the smarter dog knows when to disobey".  Amy Hempel

Hawk Talk

It was supposed to be a quick, impromptu trip to Atlanta to visit the grand kids through the front window.  Just drive there and back with plenty of time to enjoy the rest of the day.  When the Englishman slowed to turn into the driveway on the busy road, we noticed a hawk sitting on the sidewalk.  The Englishman parked and walked slowly toward the beautiful bird of prey.  The hawk began to hop along the sidewalk and it was clear that it had a broken wing.

Undeterred, the Englishman returned to the Jeep and retrieved a moving blanket and the cargo net.  Carefully circling the hawk from behind, the Englishman remained on the street side and the hawk hopped along until it was two doors down in the thick ivy of an old oak tree.  Our activity was being monitored by one curious grandson from the window and the residents of the property which the hawk had chosen as an escape route.  The Englishman threw the cargo net over the hawk and then added the blanket. I was sent back to retrieve a large box from the Englishboy #1.  When I returned, we carefully maneuvered the bird into the box and kept all of our fingers, too.

So we had a hawk in a box but no clue what to do next.  I turned to Google and searched for hawk rescue in the area.   I learned that in order to rescue a bird, you captured it and brought it directly to the facility.  The facility did not come to you.  But all the Atlanta rescue groups seemed to be at capacity and were not accepting any birds. The woman from two doors down approached with a solution:  she had a list of all of the groups in the area that you could call about wildlife rescue.  She sent the list via text message to my phone.  I started making calls.  When I called Hawk Talk there was a prerecorded message.  At the end of the message, a cell phone number was listed.  I sent a text to that number and shortly received a response with the name and phone number of a local vet that would assess the hawk.

We called the vet's office to let them know we were coming.  The GPS showed a 12 mile drive and we arrived 45 minutes "Atlanta Time" later.  A couple of techs carried the hawk in the box inside and we waited for  diagnosis.  The hawk had a broken wing and it looked to be a re-break.  It was a good candidate for rehabilitation and they would take care of him.  We made a donation for his care and decided to head home.

On the way home, I sent two text messages:  One to the woman who shared her list and one to the woman from Hawk Talk.  I was glad that we were able, yet again, to help out another fine feathered friend.

Toys on the Side

As the dogs aged, they seemed to become disinterested in their toys.  Abby was the only dog that still pulled plush animals from the toy box and surrounded herself with the treasures on her dog bed.  That is, until the Englishman realized that Charlie still enjoyed toys.  He just was too short to reach them and he wasn't up to jumping into the box like he used to do.  

For now, the box is on its side and the house is once again littered with toys of all sorts: the kind that give me a heart attack each time I accidentally step on the squeaker, the kind that hurt when I'm not wearing shoes and the kind that make me smile when I realize that an old dog can still find joy in childish things.

Cat Calling

Mr. Kitty has a neighborhood friend.  They visit each other through the basement glass doors.  I'm sure Mr. Kitty knows when his friend is about to visit as there is a bell dangling from it's collar.  I'm glad that they get to spend time with each other while maintaining social distancing guidelines.

Shoe Show

Wooden floors and a really old dog do not make the best companions.  Over the years, Chase's back legs became weaker and if he lost his footing, down he went with the back legs splayed.  Oftentimes he was left swimming across the planks until he reached a bit of carpet where he could pull himself back up.  We turned to Amazon.com and purchased dog shoes in varying sizes and styles.  We tried hard shoes and soft shoes and rubber coated slipper socks with Velcro straps. And for a short while, the shoes worked.  He only needed them on his back legs as his front legs still had strength.  Chase needed to wear the shoes all the time.  Dog feet are not meant for shoes that are based on human designs.  The shoes did not allow enough air flow and they kept his feet in a position that was not natural.  Fur would rub away from his ankles.  The lack of airflow seemed to promote nail growth and when removed, they were quite stinky.  The Englishman claimed that Chase had "rabbit hutch" feet.

We added carpet runners throughout the house and removed the shoes.  Then we added no-slip material under the carpet runners.  Shortly the dog was shoe-less and made his way through the house via a carpet runner maze.  This was not a solution.  We needed a shoe made from a breathable non-slip material.  The Englishman suggested we try the non-slip carpet pad material.

Carpet pads were pricey.  We found that the non-slip shelf and drawer liners were more economical and worked just as well under the carpet runners.  So The Englishman cut a trial pair in the shape of tube socks and I stitched them on my old Kenmore sewing machine.  We used Velcro cable ties to hold up his new brown socks.

It was a brilliant idea to put the non-slip material on Chase so that he had it wherever he went.  His feet no longer smelled and the design allowed enough room that his feet were able to have natural movement.  Each pair lasted about a week and took just a couple of minutes to sew.  The garish mixture of carpet runners were rolled up and stored.  Once again, my 17-year old setter could outrun and outsmart me in the house as he trotted around in his functional no-slip socks.  

The Corner of Invisibility

There is a corner in our house that has the magical ability to render any dog immediately invisible.  It's in the dining room and we have a square bed that fits perfectly against the two walls.  

Having a multi-dog family requires the ability to count out loud. My routine before leaving the house is to count a number loudly: "One, two.....where's Chase?"  A panicked search ensues.  One cannot simply call the dog's name since he is deaf.  One must locate the dog.  After searching frantically with no success, I am frequently reminded, typically by the Englishman, to check the Corner of Invisibility.  Chase is there, quite visible, every single time.

Spring Chickens

Just past Six Flags Amusement Park was the farm where the Englishman and I drove to pick up four beautiful Orpington chickens.  Black shiny feathers with a vivid beetle-green sheen in the sunlight were visible from the outside of the fence where I stood.  I was told that I needed to help catch my own chickens.  The jovial farmer grabbed a fishing net and strode to the shelter where the juvenile chickens were lounging in a pile.  I pointed to my first choice and the net swooshed through the air snagging my victim.  I was handed an upside-down chicken to hold by the legs.  Brutal.  Soon I had an inverted chicken in each hand and I told the farmer that I couldn't hold any further catches.  These were well fed and heavy birds.  He caught a third and took all three, leaving me with the net to catch one more.  After a couple of false swooshes, I had my fourth and left the fenced area.  The farmer seemed surprised as I emerged with my prize.

The Englishman secured the birds in the dog kennel and we headed back home.  I enjoyed the sounds of protest with each turn we took until we reached the interstate where the clucks stopped.  They were introduced to the old duck house area until we could reinforce the larger chicken compound.  They had plenty of room, food, water and a house for shelter.  That night, when we checked on them, they were sleeping in a pile on the ground.

The next morning it was raining.  I braved the downpour and discovered unhappy chickens with feathers plastered to their bodies.  It was clear that none had ventured into the house.  Sighing, I entered the pen and caught each chicken and pushed them into the house.  It seemed that they were intrigued by the concept of a roof over their heads.  I checked again that night and they were still in the house.  I was now worried that they wouldn't find their way back out again.  Thankfully, when I conducted a welfare check the next morning, all four were happily pecking about the now dry ground and seemed to understand the concept of an actual chicken house.  

It took a few weeks but they finally recognized me, at least as a source of food.  They no longer scattered when I approached and gently answered me when I called to them.  All four girls provided daily eggs in hues of beige, tan and brown and enjoyed treats of frozen corn on the cob, berries and watermelon in the steamy heat of July.  They were no longer my Spring chickens.

Reflections

Sometimes, I find inspiration in the artwork on a blank card.  I have a small collection of blank greeting cards and postcards that inspired me over the years. "On the Sea" by Maja Lindberg was a dreamy mix of whimsy and enchantment.  A small child tentatively reaches over the side of the boat to touch his reflection on the glass smooth surface of the sea.  It reminds me that just because something isn't there, it doesn't mean we can't see it.

There are memories of my pets that have filled my life with great joy.  While there was a profound sense of loss when they were no longer with me, I still am reminded of them all the time.  I can't count the conversations that begin with "Remember when..." and then we laugh about the memory and once again, the cherished pet is still with us.  My dog Drummer, who would lay on his back, kicking his feet in the air and emitting grunts and groans to beg for popcorn from my mom.  Our cat, Poppy who would lie at the edge of the lake allowing small waves of water to gently lap at her belly.  My sister's cat, Scully who would play fetch with her toys and later would terrorize me with her warning growls.  Our English cocker spaniel, Molly who could ring a bell to be let into the house or George who rocked a Mohawk like no other dog since.  My grandmother, leaving bits of Poppycock in corners of her room when she knew we were coming for a visit with the dogs.

Our dining room is lined with portraits of our pets, painted by my mother.  The dining room is a gathering place for family, friends and snoozing dogs waiting for a bit of accidentally dropped morsels.  It's also a place for conversations, memories and playful reflections.

Master Bedroom

Years ago, while visiting Intercourse, Pennsylvania, I took refuge from a downpour of rain in an art gallery tucked away at Kitchen Kettle Village.  Rushing inside, I stopped in the entryway to fold my inadequate umbrella and was captivated by a painting hanging on the wall.  The framed print was “Master Bedroom” by Andrew Wyeth and it reminded me so much of my English setter, Chase. 

This 1965 watercolor depicts the Wyeth family dog, Rattler, peacefully napping on Andrew Wyeth’s bed.  The curator of the shop said that the artist had come home tired one evening, wanting to take a nap, only to find his dog was already there.  I knew I needed this picture and bought the only size that would fit in the back of my very small convertible trunk.  It was hung in our dining room although I still wished I could have purchased a larger sized print.  

Fast forward a few years and a large antique shop outside of Atlanta granted my wish.  The Englishman and I had a couple hours to spare.  Wandering through the various booths of the antique shop, I noticed “Master Bedroom” hanging on a peg board.  It was a larger size in a modest, matted frame.  I pointed to it and the Englishman checked the price: $25.  Someone clearly didn’t understand the treasure they had and I bought it.  

This print hangs proudly in my office on a wall that faces me each day.  Its serenity is a grounding and familiar presence as well as a conversation piece about a favorite artist. It's also a reminder of all the little things that might be overlooked by some:  an old spool bed that reminds me of the used furniture in our summer cottage, a chenille coverlet from my grandmother's house, late afternoon sunlight casually tossed at the foot of the bed and a peacefully sleeping dog, comfortably dreaming with his head on the pillow.

A Wrinkle in Time

There's a crack in my windshield that reminds me of my last perfect weekend.  I didn't even realize something had hit my windshield with enough force to damage it as I drove the back roads of South Carolina, headed to Savannah to visit my childhood best friend.  I hadn't seen her in a couple of years and we had planned this visit during her business trip from Texas for months.  It was Friday, the 13th.

We found it strange that the Irish Pub we chose for dinner closed at 10 PM even though the hours etched into the door stated 1 AM.  Chairs were placed atop tables and the staff began to sweep the floors, effectively driving patrons outside into the warm evening air.  

The next morning, all of the parking garages in downtown Savannah were closed with "Full" signs lit up in orange neon letters, even though we could clearly see empty spaces.  I was grateful to have a small car as I quickly turned in the middle of the street to snatch a spot on the opposite side.  It was a busy Spring day and I had forgotten that it was Saint Patrick's Day weekend as I saw shades of green and glitter on tourists wandering the streets.  I ducked into a bar for a plastic cup of tepid green beer.

The sun was warm and salty air filled my senses as we drove to Tybee Island with the top of my convertible down.  I noticed the small crack on the windshield for the first time.  It was the size of my pinky finger.  Construction signs announced that the parade was cancelled.  We drove down the main street of Tybee looking for suitable beach parking.  It was lined with chairs and people securing their spot.  The parade may have been officially cancelled but it still carried on without a permit.  Savannah never did like being told what to do.  

I pulled my beach bag from the trunk and we found a space to form a small red and white striped island.  The battery operated radio picked up a local station and we basked in the sun for a couple of hours.  College students on spring break played football and clustered nearby as sea gulls cried their haunting calls as they floated on the wind above the ocean.

The parade was in full swing when we left so I found a side street to avoid the festivities as we headed back to the hotel.  The crack was getting longer but had yet to reach the center of the glass.  I left on Sunday, heading home via a combination of interstate and familiar Georgia country roads.  I stopped for gas in Milledgeville and noticed for the first time the anxious looks, gloved hands and abundance of hand sanitizer from other customers at the pumps. I had been carrying my own for a few weeks but realized I was no longer alone in my mission of germ avoidance.

It's almost April and the crack is much longer and has strayed slightly from its original course.  I will need a new windshield but I haven't placed the call to my insurance company yet.  I'm a bit sentimental about it as it is still a reminder each day of my last normal weekend.

Waves

I have been driving the same morning commute each day for nearly ten years.  I listen to audio books, podcasts and my friends and family know that they will have my undivided attention if they want to call me.  Living in the South, I've become familiar with complete strangers that have waved to me as I pass by each morning or evening.  While the Englishman does not understand nor approve of this non-British behavior, I participate and return a single wave.

For many years, at the start of my commute down a lonely, questionably paved back road, a tall, weathered black man stood at the end of his driveway with his two granddaughters as they waited for the bus.  The first two years, the smaller child would dance excitedly as her older sister boarded the bus and the grandfather would always wave at me as I paused until the bus ventured along.  One August, the day came when the younger child was finally able to join her sister.  When the bus schedule changed slightly, it was very rare that I saw the grandfather but with school out due to the quarantine, I spotted him last week, standing at the end of his gravel driveway in his housecoat and slippers and we waved at each other like old friends.

Further on my commute, I pass farmland  and railroad tracks and sometimes I attempt to race the train if I am in a rush.  An older woman wearing comfortable pants, white sneakers and a straw hat covering her silver hair, briskly walks down her long dusty driveway, turns left and walks carefully along the edge of the road.  When she reaches her neighbor's driveway, she turns left again and heads for the house.  No matter which part of her journey to visit her neighbor, she waves and I wave back.

My final wave might be my favorite.  Each evening when I leave work, I head down a long rural road.  It's lined with fields of cows and goats and old abandoned cars.  When I reach the small town of Mesena, there is a stocky black man who walks down the center of the road.  When he sees my car, he moves to the side of the road and he waves.  I return the wave.  For years, he would turn around and peer at me, puzzled at my very existence.  Then came the day when something changed.  He was sporting glasses and when I waved back, he continued on his way, moving into the center of the road once again.

Red Solo Cup

As I started my Monday morning drive, I found it difficult to focus on my audio book.  Thoughts swirled through my head about work and home and my "cup" felt full and heavy.  I was stuck behind a pickup truck that was pulling a lawnmower on a rusty trailer.  I slowed for the speed bumps in Buckhead, annoyed at their existence in the 25 mile per hour town.  I glanced in the direction of the fire station and noticed a black lab carrying a red Solo cup in his mouth, slowly walking across the green grass glazed with frost.  His tail was gently wagging and I wondered where he was going.  

Perhaps he was concerned about litter and was headed to the recycle bin next door?  Maybe he was en route to the old farmhouse to borrow a cup of dog food? I realized that I was smiling and continued to think about the black lab until I reached the highway a short time later.  My focus had returned and it seemed that I had made room for possibilities in my own red solo cup.

Tales of Trails

It was a pretty January Sunday and the first day without rain.  The Englishman and I decided to revisit a trail that we hadn’t hiked in many years.  The last time, we brought George and I dubbed it “Rattlesnake Trail”.  I mentioned this to the Englishman and he wisely reminded me that it was rural Georgia and that nickname could be applied everywhere.  It was also January and he was dubious that we would see any snakes.

The trail is considered a bird sanctuary and follows the river that divides Eatonton and Sparta.  We parked and were the only car in the gravel lot.  Abby was on her leash.  Charlie sniffed about while we changed Chase’s back feet from slipper socks to rugged hiking shoes.  We brought their morning breakfast with us and the dogs had a brief picnic.  I walked over to read the notice board and the Englishman called out to me that Chase was headed toward the exit.  I ran with Abby, trying to remain fast yet stealthy so that I could catch him before he reached the road.  Ninja I am not and my deaf, nearly seventeen year-old setter sensed my approach, glanced behind him and took off in a run.  I ditched my backpack and pursued him.  Abby helped by pulling me behind her.  Chase launched himself into a deep puddle which slowed him and I was able to catch him on the other side.  I turned him around to face the parking lot and sent the muddy and dripping canine back to the Englishman.

We divided the dogs between us and set down a barely visible path.  My favorite part of the trail is just before a wooden bridge that crosses a creek.  There is a low point and we can access the creek shore.  Chase and Charlie immediately jumped into the clear, cool water.  Charlie was up to his neck and Chase lay down, his white tail feathering out in the flow.  Abby, who is fearful of water, slowly sniffed the edged, lapped at it with her tongue and then tested it with her front paw.  When she realized that it was quite shallow, she leaped into the creek, splashing and dancing and happily flinging water at me.  I had wardrobe regrets as mud was flicked across my white hoodie.

Onward we proceeded until we reached some benches to rest.  Charlie was tired and we decided to turn back since the Englishman would now be carrying him.  He asked me if I saw the snake skin off the path.  I had not and he told me that he would point it out on the way back.  It was not snake skin.  It was snake pieces.  Rattlesnake.  I told him this with an inward shudder. 

We reached the Jeep and I looked around for a trash can.  There wasn’t one.  I did not want to keep the dog waste bag in the car with us and the closest trash can was at least four miles away at the gas station.  The Englishman took the bag and attached it to the back windshield wiper.  He carefully navigated around the pot holes and eased onto the road.  I turned to check on the dogs and noticed that we had several cars following us on the remote country highway.  I prayed that the bag would stay intact and pictured it swaying on the back wiper.  As the Englishman turned into the gas station and parked, one of the vehicles that was directly behind us followed and parked in the space next to us.  I refused to make eye contact and told my husband that he would have to dispose of the bag because I was quite sure that everyone knew we had attached a big bag of poo to the back of our car.

Back at our house, two dogs received a warm bath….Abby found a hiding space and I was too tired to argue.  They happily lounged in front of the fireplace and I was sure they were dreaming about Rattlesnake Trail.