Excerpt from “Shasta’s Time” - Dissertation for Doctor of Philosophy in Counseling, 1996

Outdoor Life
Shasta enjoyed his outdoor time considerably. He loved the park, which was conveniently right across the street from our house. We wrestled countless times there. But the park had its own sort of confinement. Because it was a public place - with a school on two sides no less - I was always a little leery of people getting too close to Shasta. It’s not that I was worried about him being hostile to people. More the opposite: him being too friendly. It was one thing for him to mug and tackle someone in our house. It was quite another for him to do it in the park, to someone we didn’t know. Can we say “law suit”!
But the funnest outdoor times we had, were out in the foothills east of Bakersfield, in the area right next to Mesa Marin Raceway.
Now this land could be considered “Scrub Land” by strict definition, short of the small trees and scrub brush that would normally be in this sort of land. But there were an endless maze of valleys and hills for us to play in and explore. Shasta loved every moment we spent here, which was no surprise. This type of land - had it been an unpopulated wilderness, and not so close to a city - could actually have been home turf for him, if he were in the wild.
Shasta and I would spend many hours here, not usually wrestling, as Shasta didn’t like the endless burrs and stickers any more than I did. Roaming was good enough for both of us.
For you wildlife enthusiasts out there, let me tell you, there’s nothing more beautiful that watching a cougar go galloping across a ridge right before you. It was simply awesome! Once again, I can’t begin to express how disappointed I am to not have taken any pictures.
Sometimes, I would take off running down a hill or across the valley or plateau, and Shasta would pause for a moment before loping after me. Sometimes (most of the time) he would sprint up and tackle me, and at others, he would sprint to catch up, and then bound along next to me. He was many times faster than me, even at my fastest pace, and I certainly couldn’t match his limitless energy.
At other times, Shasta would be loping back and forth around me, bounding from one tumbleweed to the next, as we walked along. Sometimes he would hide behind them - the Bakersfield Foothills variety of tumbleweeds could reach sometimes five feet across - and I would lose sight of him for just a moment. Then, as I approached, he would jump out from behind it, trying his best to startle me. Sometimes he actually did, but most of the time, I just faked it, just to make the game that much more fun for him. Who knows? Maybe I never fooled him at all, but he still seemed to enjoy our games.
But somewhere during our tumbleweed adventures, he would start prancing around me, asking silently for release from his invisible tether that had mysteriously bound him to me from almost the moment we’d met.
“Go,” I’d say.
“Mrow?” he’d ask. “Okay?”
“Go on!”
So off he’d go, bounding across the plain, or up the valley, away from me. But even though he was “released”, he would never stray out of sight from me. And it was his doing, rather than mine. God knows, it would be impossible for me to keep up with him for very long. He’d reach the top of a foothill, and scan the area for me. If he saw me, he’d turn back to his private adventure, until another few minutes had passed, and he’d do his search again.
Occasionally, I’d be out of sight when Shasta did his check. Now I’d have to say, panic is not a natural things for animals of the wild. But it was during these foothill adventures that I truly realized that Shasta and I had a very special bond. Some people might choose to call it friendship. Others, perhaps those who have an animal - dog or cat maybe - at home, might understand when I say it was something much more than that. After all, who was really the “pet”? I knew exactly. I never even imagined questioning the fact.
Sometimes, not often, I would do some hiding behind tumbleweeds myself. I stopped after a while, just because of Shasta’s reaction. Even from a hundred yards away, I could hear Shasta’s call.
“Mrow!”
It would be strong and clear at first. But it changed rapidly.
“Row-wow!”
A twinge of panic would be on the edge of his shouts. Then it was fear.
“Row!”
Shasta would be bounding back and forth, calling out every second or so. Then I’d step out from behind the tumbleweed, and he’d lock sights onto me. He’d let out another quick shout, and sprint towards me. Burrs and stickers or not, he’d hit me running, and we’d be into another wrestle match. At first, I thought it was all kind of fun. Then I came to realize a few things.
It would be obvious to say Shasta was well-muscled. That simply went with his species. Along with that, were the other autonomic functions: heartbeat and breathing. Normally, Shasta could wrestle me time and time again, wearing me to an absolute frazzle, and he’d barely be breathing hard. His loss-of-sight wrestle times were different.
By the time he reached me, he would do his flying tackle thing, and the actual wrestling match would be amazingly short-lived. He would just attack with a fervor, pinning my quickly, rather than drawing it out like he normally did. Then he would plop down on top of me, preventing my from getting up.
It was during one of these events that I noticed some things. He was breathing hard, which as I thought about it, was the first time I could remember. With that, his heart was absolutely pounding. And it wasn’t the tired-and-out-of-breath sort of pounding, like you have after running ten miles. It was more like and adrenalin sort of pounding - fear, anxiety. My realization of these things led to others.
There were different voice inflections that he’d called me with. As I thought about them, I came to understand them for what they were - like his pounding heartbeat: fear and anxiety.
So Shasta would tackle me with a fervor. And then I understood why. Punishment for the cruel joke. Payback for my childish misunderstanding of the mysterious bond that had held us willfully captive from the time Shasta and I had met.
I never hid from him again. I went out of my way to keep him in sight. If I could see him, then I knew he could see me. Sure, we still lost sight of each other occasionally. But with both of us working together, we’d reestablish eye-contact long before Shasta panicked. Then he could enjoy his bounding and sprinting. And I could simply watch him, marveling at the beauty of his motions, the grace of his actions, and the wonder, and pleasure, that the boundaries of friendship did not include differing species.
What wonderful times those were, where Shasta and I could both “commune with nature” in our separate, but interlinked, ways!