On Top of Dog Mountain

Riley’s footsteps woke me up, and I knew without opening my eyes that he simply stood under the door frame, examining us.  I heard him shift his weight a couple of times, but he made no sound, otherwise.  When he was younger, he would always enter the room and nuzzle whoever’s face was closer to the edge of the bed.  Most times, it was Erin’s, and she would have to get out from under the warmth of the blankets, and let Riley out onto the deck, from which he would meander into the nearby wooded area in our property to do his business.  Then, I would hear Erin stumbling in the kitchen to get the coffee started before swiftly climbing back in bed with me.  We would cuddle until either the coffee is ready or Riley would start demanding to be let back inside, whichever came first.  This was how our mornings went, every day.

        It was about two years ago when, without preamble, our dog suddenly altered our morning routine.  We didn’t know why it happened; it just did.  In the beginning, he would whimper after several minutes when neither Erin nor I would be roused by his presence at the doorway.  One day, he started not making any noise at all and just waited there patiently.  I’d have to admit to feeling unnerved about it at the start, but then resolved to the possibility that our dog was just being considerate.  Erin worked long days as a nurse, after all; and I stayed up late most nights writing.  Albeit highly unlikely, it certainly wasn’t completely improbable.

        “It’s your turn,” Erin mumbled from under her pillow.

        “Yep,” I said, sitting up and turning to look at Riley.  He started wagging his tail, and gave me what many have come to anthropomorphize as a smile.  When I stood, that was his cue to turn around and run to his spot in front of the sliding glass doors that led to the back deck.  It would always take me a minute to get there, but he didn’t seem to mind.  As soon as the door was ajar, he rushed out and disappeared into the trees out back.  We never really knew (or cared, I suppose) what else he did in there apart from his morning ritual, but it would sometimes take him hours to return.  I never worried about it, though.  He would always show back up on to the deck at some point and wait by the doors until one of us would spot him to let him back in.

        We had recently purchased one of those coffee machines that brewed a cup at a time of your choice of a variety of flavored coffees, and I got Erin’s hazelnut-flavored selection going.  (I preferred the ‘house blend’—I wasn’t at all fancy.)

        “I was thinking of doing Dog Mountain this morning,” I said, peering out the windows above the sink, as my wife walked into the kitchen to embrace me from behind.  Her coffee was nearly ready.  “It’s looking like it would stay dry out there today.  Good day for a hike.”

        “I’ll come with you,” she said and yawned. 

        I turned around, brushed a lock of red curls from her forehead, and gave her a light peck.  “You go in at noon?”

        Erin nodded then groaned.  “I don’t want to go to work today.”

        “Call in sick,” I said, guiding her sleepy self to a stool at the kitchen island.  She got home at eleven last night, and—after working a twelve-hour shift, and enduring the long drive home—simply collapsed into bed.  I grabbed her cup of coffee from the machine, and wrapped her hands around it.  She smiled as she felt the warmth of the cup.

        “I wish I could,” she said.  “It’s going to be so busy.”

        I nodded.  It’s a holiday weekend, and people tend do stupid stuff on holiday weekends that land them in hospitals.  I suppose people don’t necessarily wait until a holiday weekend to do stupid stuff that have them ending up in the emergency room, but it sure seems that way, especially the city folks.  “We’ll make it a quick one, then.”

        My beautiful wife smiled at me from behind her cup, and I proceeded to prepare breakfast.  Uncharacteristically, Riley returned to our deck after being gone for what seemed like only a half-hour, which was a pleasant surprise.  I was anxious to get on the hike, and we wouldn’t have gone without him.  We made short work of the eggs and bacon—I rewarded Riley with a couple of strips—and we were soon all packed in the Forester with our gear, en route to the Gorge.



We moved into my childhood home in Estacada about five years ago.  As if to purposefully succumb to a cliché, my parents relocated to Florida—Orlando, to be precise— when my father finally retired.  My mother grew up there, and somehow managed to convince my father, a multi-generational Oregon native, that the eternal sunshine of the southeast would be ideal for their retirement.  So, they put their house on the market but it sat there for a couple of years without any bites, which I’d secretly relished. The thought of losing a direct connection to a place where I’d spent my formative years saddened me.

        “We could rent it out,” my father had said during what turned out to be the last Thanksgiving dinner they would host at their house.  My eldest brother, Chuck, and his wife, Kristen, had driven up from Bend that year to join us.  (Their son, Dale, had wanted to fly back from Rochester, but the usual weather in the northeast at that time of year prevented any travel ideas from materializing.)  Rich—my other brother, four years my senior, who lived in Tacoma—was there, too, along with his daughters.  (Rich’s wife, Emily, couldn’t get the time off from her job.)

        “You could,” Rich said, “but, who will manage and maintain it?  I’ve heard property management companies can be assholes.”

        “Language, Richard,” my mother, who was seated next to Rich, scolded him.  She pointed with her knife in the direction of my teenage nieces, who were at the other end of the table.  Erin and I noted that neither Alyssa nor Ashley could be pried from their iPhones long enough to care about my brother’s choice of words (or the conversation, for that matter).

        “I agree with Rich,” I said.  “It’d also be weird to have total strangers living in this house.”

        “Well, we can’t leave it sitting empty,” Chuck said to me.  Then, to our father:  “And the rent money could provide extra cash for you and Mom.  It’s not cheap to live in Florida.”

        “We have things covered,” my father said, almost gruffly, without looking up from his plate.

        “A little extra money couldn’t hurt, though, Dad,” Kristen said, as she took a sip of her pinot gris.  My father shrugged, and forked a healthy serving of stuffing in his mouth.

        “I could buy it from you,” I told my father, then looked at Erin, who was sitting across the table from me.  She said nothing but shot me a quick half-smile.  When my parents announced their decision to sell their house, Erin and I had actually pondered purchasing it.  She’d always loved its location, and the expansive property that it sat on.  To her, it would be a welcomed, quiet oasis at the end of a long workday.  For me, it would satiate a subconscious need to preserve my roots.  I turned back to my father.  “I’ll take it off your hands, and we get to keep the home in the family.”

        “Then, we’ll just give it you,” my mother said.

        "Wait, that’s not fair,” Rich told her, then looked at Chuck before turning to me.  “That’s one hell of an inheritance.”

        “I didn’t ask to get it for free,” I told him. “Erin and I have been looking to buy a house anyway.  Our condo’s a bit cramped, especially now that we have Riley.  And, we’ve talked about moving out of the city.  This would be a win-win, I think.”

        “We already own this house,” my mother said to no one in particular. “There shouldn’t have to be any money exchanged among family.  It’s not right.”

        “I get that, Mom,” Rich said, “but, think about it from my perspective, and Chuck’s.  We’re both older than Jim.  If anyone’s getting this inheritance, it should be one of us first.”

        “It’s not an inheritance,” I told Rich, a slight annoyance crept into my voice.  Rich had always managed to get under my skin while we were growing up.  He was the brother I got along with less easily.  “Are you interested in buying the house, too?”

        “No, I can’t afford a second house,” Rich said, “and that’s not the point.”  Then, to Chuck:  “What’s your take?”

        Chuck looked at me.  “Well, it’s been in the market for too long, but I agree that it shouldn’t simply be given away.  If Jim wants to buy it, he should be able to.  And, at least we’ll get to keep the house in the family.  What do you think, Dad?"

        "Sounds okay to me," my father said.

        "Me, too," my mother chimed in, unprompted.

        “Fine.  You win, Jim,” Rich said to me.  “There go all chances of this being in the will when these old timers finally kick the bucket.”

        “Richard Wayne Miller, behave yourself!” my mom said, playfully punching her second son on his shoulder.

        Rich feigned being hurt by the punch, then gently grabbed my mother’s head to plant a kiss on her cheek.  “I just want what’s right, Mom.”

        “I know you do,” said my mother, and patted her son on the shoulder she’d punched a moment earlier.

        “And besides,” he added, then looked at me, “as Chuck said, at least we’ll keep the house in the family.”  He winked at me, and I smiled while shaking my head.

        “Are you sure about this, Jimmy?” my father asked.  I convinced myself that I saw in his eyes that he was hoping things would turn out this way.

        “Yes, he’s sure,” Erin suddenly blurted, and she had to stifle a chuckle.  I smiled at her knowingly.

        My father smiled, too, got up, and walked to where I was seated.  I stood as well.  He reached out his hand and I shook it.  “Son,” he said, “you’ve just bought yourself a house.”



The sun was nearly directly above us when we reached the summit, but there was still a chill in the air.  We were smart, of course, and always brought appropriate apparel on a hike.  Fall weather in Oregon can be very unpredictable and we never took a bright, dry day for granted.  And, more importantly, we knew how to dress for this weather.  For Erin, it meant repurposing a blue tartan picnic blanket as a makeshift shawl.  The combination made her look more radiant than usual.  She caught me eyeing her.  “You should take a picture— it'll last longer.”

        I laughed, and took out my iPhone.  Riley had wandered off to an edge and I pretended that he was marveling at the vistas our position on Dog Mountain afforded us.  “Come here, boy!”

        Our five-year-old mongrel ran back to us, and chose to stand (predictably) next to Erin.  He’d always shown more of an affinity for her than for me.  And, somehow, I didn’t mind that so much.  I still loved the little bugger.

        Erin crouched and draped herself over Riley.  It was a loving gesture, akin to a mother embracing her child.  “Is this good?” she asked.

        “Perfect,” I said.  I trained my iPhone’s camera on the pair, and framed the shot, noting how the pines provided quite the suitable backdrop.  “Okay, say cheese!”

        “Cheeeeese!” Erin said, smiling widely.



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