Tiny Dog: What sound feels like

It was noon, it became suddenly clear. Up on the hill of the dog park, the tornado sirens starting to wind up across the city, and we were near the park gate, about to get blasted. I hoofed it to the opposite side of the park as fast as I could, but each time the siren circled towards us, the whine was unbearable, it hurt my ears, my skin.

The first time it came around, we were close to the siren, and Wren went down to the ground on her belly, ears back, eyes squinted tightly shut, in what looked like actual pain. She’s hypersensitive to the sound of spoons being placed back in the drawer; the siren was a full-fledged somatic assault.

By the time we got to the other side of the park, it was over and Wren sniffed in the grass, oblivious, thankfully.

I thought of her on Sunday when Tiny Dog and I got a ride behind two 1800 pound draft horses, named Tom and Henry, at my friends’ farm. The clang of the metal and squeak of the leather of the harnesses and cart, the racket of the bouncing seat—it would have been too much for Wren. For Tiny Dog, tucked in my left arm, my right hand on the rail for balance, she settled in. As we clopped through the fields, the only thing I felt worried about was the occasional low oak branch I had to block as we ducked under.

Getting unhitched, after. Moss, the farm dog, by their side.

Afterward, I needled Tom, for an intermittent bloody nose. I don’t usually do acupuncture or anything on horses, but he’s a gentle guy, and I had some good points for that nose.