I've just returned from three days in Ketchum, Idaho. I went to hang out with my husband and a friend, both of whom were there for an art festival. If you know me, you know that I subscribe to Galileo's little-known Fourth Law of Inertia, which says that a body at home tends to stay at home, especially when that body is unnaturally bonded to its dogs.
Nevertheless, I boarded a plane on a Monday morning feeling excited. I left behind two sleeping canines and a detailed instruction manual for everything from how to feed them to how to pet them. For three days and nights they would be in the care of a team of custodians: their regular sitter, three dog walkers and various friends on retainer in case there arose an emergency the primary team could not handle. My husband picked me up at lunchtime in Salt Lake City, and we hopped in the van for the beautiful four-hour drive to Ketchum.
My husband and I have been married for 18 years, together for almost 30. He's still the most interesting human I know, and there is no one I would rather spend four hours crossing an arid desert with than him. That said, we struggled to talk. Every 20 minutes or so, he'd perk up and burble excitedly about the show he'd just completed in Park City, Utah. I'd listen attentively, respond affirmingly, and then we'd fall silent again.
Twenty or so minutes later, having remembered something I'd not told him about one or the other of the dogs, I'd perk up and burble excitedly. He'd listen and respond appropriately, and then we'd fall silent again. Did we wish for more topical diversity, more attention paid to our specific burblings? I dare say we did. But this is where we are for now: one of us on the road doing art festivals, the other at home caring for dogs, the intersection of our lives less profound at times than we'd like it.
We arrived in Ketchum in time for dinner with friends. Over the next two days, we hiked Bald Mountain, drove the winding road through the Sawtooth mountain range to the tiny outpost of Stanley, Idaho (population: 63), and feasted on freshly caught Idaho trout, heaps of grilled shoshito peppers and locally made mocha chip marshmallows the size of Rubik's Cubes.
My friend and I got caught up on everything that had happened since we'd last spoken weeks earlier, which is to say we discussed, at obscene length, our dogs, our careers and our marriages (in that order). Our talks were punctuated by texts from the sitter and the dog walkers, alerting me to the fact that the old dog was eating and taking his meds and the young one was not growling at him too much. In other words, Galileo's Fifth Law of Inertia - which states that when enough safeguards are put into place to keep two dogs from realizing their primary caretaker is 2,000 miles away in Ketchum, Idaho, those dogs will continue to function pretty much the way they did before she left - was in effect.
And then day three rolled around. Day three I would board a plane from Hailey, Idaho, to Salt Lake City, and then from Salt Lake City to Atlanta, after which I would get a shuttle to Chattanooga, after which I would get an Uber to the airport, after which I would drive home. It was complicated in theory, but in practice, I'd be bursting in the door at 6 p.m. to the surprise of two dogs who thought, until that moment, that I was just in the shower.
Except that isn't how it went down. Not by a long shot. What actually happened was that, on the morning of day three, the reports from home became less sunny. The old dog was rethinking eating and spinning in confused circles on the pavement; the young dog, an inveterate optimist, was glum. Galileo's Fifth Law of Inertia, it seemed, was shot through with flaws. And that was just the beginning.
I couldn't know that what lay ahead were flight cancellations and plane delays that would keep me grounded half a day past departure time. I couldn't know that once I finally found a plane to fly me to within two hours of Chattanooga, there would be a spectacular wreck a half-mile ahead of my shuttle on the highway, which would result in a further three-hour delay. I couldn't know that I wouldn't burst in the door until 3 a.m., and that when I did I would find the glum dog pacing and the demented dog too confused to sleep until 4.
And yet it seemed I'd had a premonition. The morning before, I'd clambered into the van with a cup of coffee and a container of grapefruit juice and set them teetering on the dashboard. I told my husband not to drive off until I could get settled.
"Everything is liquid and about to fall," I warned.
Truer words were never spoken.
Dana Shavin is a national award-winning columnist. Email her at Dana@danashavin.com or connect with her on Facebook at Dana Shavin Writes.