So far this spring, Bailey's had one 48-hour case of giardia and one full-body roll in gamy turkey poop. Now, whenever he disappears on the trail, I have nothing but bad thoughts. Like yesterday, I waited for him a half mile from Whitecap's summit just across the first bridge. I didn't run back up nor did I scream--I just whistled gently, then whispered an invocation that I couldn't repeat on a public blog. Sounds selfish, I suppose, but I didn't want to stay up with a pukey dog suffering from intermittent rocket-blasts of diarrhea nor did I want the aroma of turkey poop smeared in my car. I know, I'm a shitty dog dad. Fortunately, it seems Bailey simply found perfect smells in the blueberry fields, and in his own time came trotting down the Orange trail happily wagging.
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