Lethal Guardian

I had finished college.
I was now a college graduate.
This meant several things.
1. I was no longer a student.
2. I had to earn my own living
3. I had no idea how to do it
4. I was a bit frightened
My Dad knew the people who published 'The Canadian Hereford Digest'.
Yes, it's just as exciting as it sounds.
And yes, they would give me a job.
Their offices were in Calgary (population 450,000+ in 1975). This necessitated me moving there.
It was a bit larger city than I was used to.
A bit.
Okay, I admit it. Our family had been living outside of Fort MacLeod. Population 3500.
On a ranch.
Population 6.
I don't know what the percentage of difference is.
My estimate would be: large.
I packed up my little, orange Dodge colt and my six-month Old English Sheepdog puppy, Muffy, and headed out.
My best friend, Debbie was living in Calgary, in a comfortable one bedroom apartment.
I could move in with her.
In a matter of hours, it was done.
In a matter of days, I had gotten used to the change of pace that working and living in a large city entailed.
In a matter of weeks, I could fly across said city like a native, making use of the myriad (good word) back streets and little-known avenues.
I was officially a city girl.
I enjoyed my work and the people I worked with.
I got along famously with Debbie.
I was earning $300.00 a month. A fortune!
There really was only one thing that stopped me from being completely happy.
I was still a bit frightened.
Lets face it, Calgary just wasn't a ranch in the Porcupine Hills.
For one thing, there were . . . people . . . everywhere you looked. People I didn't know.
And a complete lack of cows.
I did have my dog.
And I found a place to board my horse.
But somehow, that didn't make all of the strangers in my new world any more familiar.
Or friendly.
One Sunday night, I was just returning to my apartment from a weekend at the ranch.
I really hadn't been excited about leaving, so I had put it off until very late.
Very late.
My Muffy and I pulled up in front of the building about 2:00 am.
Now this wouldn't have been a problem back on the ranch. In that safe little world, the most I would have had to worry about was my parents . . . worrying.
Here, there was the unknown.
Suddenly the dark street looked, you know, dark.
And rather scary.
I got out and started unloading my suitcase and boxes of food and donations from my Mom.
Then I proceeded to lock the car door.
Suddenly, Muffy growled.
A deep, forbidding sound.
Then she pressed back against my knees, pushing me against the side of the car.
I stared down at her in surprise.
I should probably mention, here, that Muffy was the gentlest dog ever born.
Her own bark startled her. And I had never heard her growl.
I didn't know she could.
But there, still pressing me back against the car, and still growling deeply, was my gentlest of dogs.
I stared down at her.
A sound intruded.
Footsteps.
I looked up.
Just in time to see two men walk past on the sidewalk.
The far side of the sidewalk.
Both of them were looking at Muffy.
She was definitely looking at them.
Her head was lowered, her stance rigid and the hair on her neck and back, standing up threateningly.
She was almost unrecognizable.
For several moments, we stayed like that.
Muffy, me, and the car.
Which was beginning to dig into my back, by the way.
The men continued on their way, perhaps even quickening their pace a little.
They had disappeared before Muffy quit growling and looked up at me.
Her back end began to wiggle happily once more.
I let out my breath.
We made very quick work of gathering our stuff and getting inside the building.
After that, I made sure I returned, if not in the daylight, at least at a decent hour.
And, oddly enough, I discovered that I was no longer frightened.
Especially when there were lots of people about.
And as long as I was accompanied by my guardian.
Gentle Muffy.

Ranch Cats

The ranch house. Warm. Comfortable. A little too welcoming.

It was night.

And my dog, Cheetah, was barking.

Something she did a lot. At night.

We had tried to train her out of it, but had never quite succeeded.

It was annoying.

Finally, I got up to see what could be bothering her.

Coyotes howling in the foothills nearby.

A cow bawling.

Water running in the canal.

Crickets.

Dumb dog.

I should explain, here, that the Stringam ranch house had a large carport.

It had two walls, one on the west, formed by a wall of the house and one on the north. The south and east sides were open.

The carport joined the overhang over the front door in a narrow strip right next to the house.

It was possible to walk from a vehicle into the house without seeing the sky, but it was tricky and involved negotiating car hoods and garden paraphernalia (good word).

Now, normally, when one exited the house, one would walk straight to the front gate and avoid the carport entirely.

Something I usually did.

Tonight I . . . didn't.

I don't know why.

I glanced out the door into the inky blackness.

There is nothing quite so dark as as a night on the prairies, with no moon.

And the mercury vapour light in the yard not quite reaching the house.

My dog was over in that yard, at the business end of the carport.

Still barking.

Stupid dog.

I sighed and pushed the screen door open.

I hesitated.

Then did something I had never done before.

I turned and made my way, carefully, to the carport, avoiding shovels and other garden tools.

Then I walked between the cars towards my frantic dog.

I paused at the edge of the carport.

Cheetah was just feet away and her barking, if it could be believed, had increased.

I started forward again, but just as I lifted my foot, a sound shattered the darkness.

And I do mean shattered.

It was the scream of a cougar.

Now, I'm sure I don't have to tell you what the sound of a cougar does to one when you hear it ringing across the prairie.

It's . . . scary.

This scream was five feet away.

Above me.

At the very edge of the carport roof.

See? Shattered.

I froze instantly.

Then started to back up, one step at a time.

Finally, I turned and sprinted towards the front door, careful to keep roof between me and our unwanted visitor and heedless of whatever might be in my path.

I called my dog and she came running.

Still barking.

The two of us ducked inside, and I banged the heavy outer door shut and locked it.

Now, I should point out that the main door of the ranch house was never closed, let alone locked.

Except when I was out on my first date with my husby and my Dad didn't want me back.

But that is another story.

Moving on . . .

Mom's voice, “What's the matter, dear?”

I was staring out the window.

Cheetah was now standing behind me.

She continued to bark.

“We have a visitor, Mom!” I said over the noise.

“Oh?” Mom appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“Yeah. A cougar is sitting on the carport roof.”

“Are you sure?”

I turned to look at her, thinking about the horrendous (Ooo, great word!) sound. “Fairly sure.”

“Oh, dear!” she disappeared.

I stayed by the window, but could see nothing in the blackness.

My dad appeared. Calm as always.

“Where?”

“Well it was on the carport a few minutes ago.”

“It'll leave.”

I stared at him.

“You're not going to go out after it?”

“Not while it's on the roof.”

Good point.

Dad got a flashlight and pointed it out the window towards the carport roof.

Empty.

I cautiously opened the door.

Cheetah shot through the opening and into the night.

Her barking moved slowly away from the ranch buildings and towards the foothills.

Our visitor was obviously headed home.

The first and only time I can remember a living creature receiving a less-than-exemplary welcome at the ranch.

Or being offered a warm meal.

Oh. Wait.

I guess that's a good thing.

First Night out - or - The Night We Cheated Death

Anita, Jerry, Me, Chris, Mom, Blair (in front of Mom), Graham (a visitor) and George

My sister, Chris had turned 16.
And gotten her driver's license.
For us kids on the ranch, the world had just gotten a whole lot smaller.

It was our first foray into town . . . without parental supervision. For the first time, ever, there were only siblings in the car.
It was a truly magical night.
Great company. (Jerry and George hadn't teased me, even once.)
Great entertainment planned. (The Friday night movie was always a first-run hit, thanks to the theatre politics of the time - something to do with our theatre owner having seniority over all of those in the nearby city of Lethbridge - but that is another story . . .)
Our own little Envoy station wagon. (With two-week veteran, Christine, at the wheel.)
An anticipated stop at the local drive-in after the movie. (Mmmm . . . burgers . . .)
The heart-stopping possibility of joining a queue of cars cruising main. (Our first chance to participate. Somehow, cruising main had never been considered when Mom or Dad were chauffeuring . . .)
Yes, magical was the right word.
And it all happened. The movie, the drive-in, the cruise.
We had hit the big times!
Then, as with any magical night, midnight came. Our little Envoy was pointed towards the far distant lights of home and ordered to return us there.
Obligingly, it started out.
Then, halfway home, it stopped.
My two mechanically-minded brothers scrambled happily out of the car.
Almost instantly, they spotted the problem. A disconnected fuel line. Easily repaired. I think, perhaps they were a bit disappointed the problem was eliminated so quickly. They would have loved to crawl over, under and through that little car.
We were again under way.
Only to stop once more a few miles further down the road. This time, out of gas.
Obviously, the fuel line had done more than just briefly stop the engine.
We four independent kids sat there in the moonlight, wondering what to do.
And realizing that independence wasn't all it was cracked up to be.
Let me paint you the picture . . .
The year was 1966. Phones had just recently been installed in the ranching country of Milk River and ran on the 'crank' method. (Our ring was two longs, by the way.) Cell phones existed only in Star Trek. We were about 6 miles from town. The nearest neighbours were at '117', a ranching community about 5 miles away. Our home was a further 9 miles from there. Few people used this road during the day, and even fewer by night. The chance of rescue by someone heading home was slim to non-existent.
It was a fairly warm night with a full, bright moon. Still, we were hesitant to start walking. There was no possibility of getting lost, but wolves, though not common, weren't unheard of. Or cougars either, for that matter.
What to do.
And then we saw lights. Behind us, coming up from town.
Real lights. On a real vehicle.
Coming fast.
Now who on earth could that be at this time of night on these roads?
An elderly pickup slid to a halt beside us. The dust always followed directly after, settling belatedly down over the scene.
Two doors popped open.
And two bachelors who lived in the foothills west of our ranch leaned into the window.
The smell of their breath hit us before they had even opened their mouths.
And suddenly it became clear just why we weren't the only crazies out at this time of night.
Obviously, DUI hadn't been invented yet.
"Hello, Kids!" the first one said, slurring his words slightly. "What'sa matter?"
"We've run out of gas," Chris said, hesitantly.
"Oh that's no problem," the second said. "We've got a shain!"
The 'shain' turned out to be a chain, which they proceeded . . . with colourful language and various starts and stops . . . to hitch to the front bumper of our car.
"All set, kids?"
My sister gripped the steering wheel.
And we were off!
Let me just say this . . . elderly bachelors, driving an equally elderly truck, and having just come from their twice yearly trip to the bars in Sweetgrass, could sure cover the ground.
We approached speeds nearing 50 miles per hour. And that was on gravel roads, at night.
And hitched to the vehicle in front of us by a 10 foot chain.
I was right. My sister, though just a two-week veteran, was a veteran. Her driving that night would have inspired Mario Andretti.
At one point, the chain came off and the ancient truck drove on without us. We coasted to a stop and watched them go, wondering if they would even notice.
But half a mile further up, they slid to a stop in a cloud of dust, and then dutifully returned. After repeating the whole 'sorting out the shain' episode, we were off again.
The lights of the ranch never, ever, looked so good.
The men dropped us and our lifeless vehicle in the barnyard, waved cheerfully and wound their way back up the drive.
We marched happily to the house, full of the excitement of the evening and its hair-raising conclusion.

That was just the beginning of many, many trips to town for fun and entertainment. But somehow, no matter what was planned, nothing quite matched the adrenaline of that first night.

Perhaps 'brushes with death' hold an excitement all their own.