dogs weren't allowed, he would sit hunched massively in the passenger seat of my rusty Land Cruiser and stare out the windshield until I returned, no matter how many hours it took. When I went away on climbing trips and left him in the care of friends, he would refuse to eat or drink until I returned. My love and devotion for the abused beast quenched his rage and mellowed him until the love was reflected back at me, magnified a hundred times. Instead of a raging brute he morphed into a gentle, playful giant. I named him after the animal he most resembled.
Between sets of pull-ups, I hang by my fingertips and watch a children's soccer game on a field nearby. The cold morning air, the laughter of the kids, the cheers of the parents, they all have me feeling so unusually good that for a moment I lose track of the beast. Just when I start looking around for him he appears. He barrels onto the soccer field moving faster than he's moved in years. A part of me admires that his creaking bones and ancient muscles can still carry him that fast; the rest of me begins running, calling his name.
Children scatter, their screams mixing with their parents' outraged shouts. Oso powers through them like they're a pile of leaves. With a youthful lunge he tackles the soccer ball, then crushes it in his jaws. I catch up to him and grab his collar just as he gives the ball a death-shake that flings drool into the sunlight. Angry fathers and mothers encircle me, yelling. I apologize repeatedly but to no avail. They aren't interested in anything but giving me a sound cursing.
“That's the most irresponsible . . .”
“A child could have been killed . . .”
“Keep that goddamn monster on a leash . . .”
“Someone should call the police . . .”
Finally I just drop a twenty-dollar bill on the deflated corpse of the ball and tug the dog across the field. We're almost past the chalked sideline when he squats his hind legs and defecates on the grass.
I try to berate him and drag him off but can't stop laughing. Coming back to Laramie and Vedauwoo is doing something to us both, making us younger and more carefree again. Every now and then, like on the rocks yesterday, I feel as if my emotional wounds are finally scabbing over.
Although the morning air is still cold, I eat my bagels with lox outside on the café's patio. Oso lies near my feet, relishing the occasional bite that I drop by his head.
The file that's open on the table before me is in disarray. I wonder if the sheriff did that on purpose. After carefully wiping my hands, I rearrange it in chronological order beginning with the reports of the responding officers and finishing with the county coroner's findings and opinions. The envelope that holds a stack of what I assume are eight-by-ten photographs of the scene, the body in situ, and the autopsy I leave unopened. Rather than risk upsetting the waitress who periodically checks on me, I save it for a more private viewing.
The initial report and investigation was done by Sergeant Leroy Bender, I'm unhappy to see. I read it skeptically and am not disappointed to conclude that it was a half-assed job. Despite handwriting that borders on a kindergartner's scrawl and numerous misspellings, I learn that Bender had been called into the station at nearly three in the morning to meet with Bradley Karge, who was reporting a climbing accident in a part of the Medicine Bow National Forest known as Vedauwoo. The Sheriff's Department apparently shares jurisdiction there with the federal government.
Bradley informed the sergeant that a girl named Kate Danning had fallen from a cliff during a late-night outdoor party and was believed to be dead. He gave the names of four other people who were present at the party on the rocks, and I'm interested to see Billy Heller's name among them. Lynn's name is not. Bender had called in another officer, named Knight, who is a certified Emergency Medical Technician, and the three drove up to the
Between sets of pull-ups, I hang by my fingertips and watch a children's soccer game on a field nearby. The cold morning air, the laughter of the kids, the cheers of the parents, they all have me feeling so unusually good that for a moment I lose track of the beast. Just when I start looking around for him he appears. He barrels onto the soccer field moving faster than he's moved in years. A part of me admires that his creaking bones and ancient muscles can still carry him that fast; the rest of me begins running, calling his name.
Children scatter, their screams mixing with their parents' outraged shouts. Oso powers through them like they're a pile of leaves. With a youthful lunge he tackles the soccer ball, then crushes it in his jaws. I catch up to him and grab his collar just as he gives the ball a death-shake that flings drool into the sunlight. Angry fathers and mothers encircle me, yelling. I apologize repeatedly but to no avail. They aren't interested in anything but giving me a sound cursing.
“That's the most irresponsible . . .”
“A child could have been killed . . .”
“Keep that goddamn monster on a leash . . .”
“Someone should call the police . . .”
Finally I just drop a twenty-dollar bill on the deflated corpse of the ball and tug the dog across the field. We're almost past the chalked sideline when he squats his hind legs and defecates on the grass.
I try to berate him and drag him off but can't stop laughing. Coming back to Laramie and Vedauwoo is doing something to us both, making us younger and more carefree again. Every now and then, like on the rocks yesterday, I feel as if my emotional wounds are finally scabbing over.
Although the morning air is still cold, I eat my bagels with lox outside on the café's patio. Oso lies near my feet, relishing the occasional bite that I drop by his head.
The file that's open on the table before me is in disarray. I wonder if the sheriff did that on purpose. After carefully wiping my hands, I rearrange it in chronological order beginning with the reports of the responding officers and finishing with the county coroner's findings and opinions. The envelope that holds a stack of what I assume are eight-by-ten photographs of the scene, the body in situ, and the autopsy I leave unopened. Rather than risk upsetting the waitress who periodically checks on me, I save it for a more private viewing.
The initial report and investigation was done by Sergeant Leroy Bender, I'm unhappy to see. I read it skeptically and am not disappointed to conclude that it was a half-assed job. Despite handwriting that borders on a kindergartner's scrawl and numerous misspellings, I learn that Bender had been called into the station at nearly three in the morning to meet with Bradley Karge, who was reporting a climbing accident in a part of the Medicine Bow National Forest known as Vedauwoo. The Sheriff's Department apparently shares jurisdiction there with the federal government.
Bradley informed the sergeant that a girl named Kate Danning had fallen from a cliff during a late-night outdoor party and was believed to be dead. He gave the names of four other people who were present at the party on the rocks, and I'm interested to see Billy Heller's name among them. Lynn's name is not. Bender had called in another officer, named Knight, who is a certified Emergency Medical Technician, and the three drove up to the
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