changing course
Following our recent trek to the harbor--and the much ballyhooed appearance of one adorable harbor seal--we'd already begun deliberating our next grand adventure. That's when it dawned on us: April would bring the start of the Skagit Valley Tulip Festival, the largest tulip festival in the country, where tens of millions of satiny blooms carpet the valley's farmland in awe-inspiring swaths of brilliant jewel-like colors. We'd attended the event once before, in 2013, reluctantly leaving Georgie at home for the afternoon. Dogs, at that time, had been allowed at the street fair, but they had not been permitted to walk the grounds of the four participating tulip farms. It would have required days to tour them all, so we'd chosen only one--RoozenGaarde--then made our way back to our waiting pup.
This year, three of the farms have opened their doors to our canine companions as well. The incomparable exhibition gardens at RoozenGaarde would have lured us back there in an instant, but they were, understandably, the only farm to still refuse entry to dogs. (If you happen to be in northwest Washington, dog-free, however, I highly recommend a visit there.) We chose the next best thing--Tulip Town--for our 2024 visit. For two weeks, we talked about it. We planned for it. We checked the Skagit Valley Bloom Status page daily, so we'd know exactly when the region would flaunt its most abundant color. Finally, this past Friday, the announcement came: the tulips had fully awoken into a sea of brilliant blooms. We sounded our excited cheers. We gushed to Maisie about what would be a totally new experience for her (which, despite her intelligence, probably made as much sense as if we'd confessed we'd soon be parasailing or traveling twenty-thousand leagues under the sea). Our shepherd-beagle appeared pleased, nonetheless. We set our sights on Sunday the 14th.
And then we didn't go.
The weekend arrived, and something kept niggling at me, something I'd learned once long ago and had only recalled as the hazy outline of data I couldn't quite interpret. Then a picture began to form. I researched my suspicions, and, yes, indeed, tulips--every part of them, from petal to bulb--are extremely toxic to dogs. Grass-munching aside, Maisie has never shown much interest in eating plants, so I doubt she would purposely put any of the petals or leaves to a taste test (though one never truly knows what a dog might do). Chances are, our girl would have been fine as our trio trudged through the muddy farmland between endless rows of potentially fatal foliage, but we couldn't be absolutely certain bits of plant life crushed into the soil wouldn't get stuck between her toes, only to be licked away later. Or that she, indeed, wouldn't snatch up a fallen morsel from the ground when our eyes were focused elsewhere. What awaited us was a minefield, albeit one uncharacteristically rife with aesthetic charm. There is the potential for unknown risks to our pup, to ourselves, on every hike we take, but to deliberately escort our baby into perpetual proximity of toxic substances, no matter how small the odds, that risk is too great.
And so The Fitzgerald & Bark Explorers' Club unexpectedly changed course. We headed back to a place where the sweet breezes blow, the endless ripples flow, and the out-of-reach tulips still grow.
Sure, we'd only visited the harbor two weeks earlier, but this was the one spot in the county we knew spring blossoms would be on full display. Would they compare to the sight of acres upon acres of vibrant tulips? No, but we didn't need blooming extravagance to find our bliss, just a little color, a lot of fresh air, and a few hours to relax, explore, and put our current troubles temporarily out of mind. Bonus: we wouldn't be up to our ankles in mud, and the price of admission was nothing greater than an eager and adventurous spirit.
On Easter Sunday, we'd journeyed to our beautiful bay in search of a bunny and spring foliage, with the improbable aspiration of spotting a seal. The latter, amazingly enough, happened; the former didn't. This time we went in search of a seal (nope) and spring foliage (plenty), and, instead of aquatic mammals, we got bunnies! The grown rabbit we'd first encountered showed almost no apprehension during our approach. The baby bunny on the other side of the marina, however, hopped away faster than I could focus my camera. Before dissolving into a brownish blur, it was such a darling little thing though--an itty bitty ball of twitchy-whiskered fluff with stubby rounded ears still waiting to reach their full glory. This little bun was so tiny, we could have held her in the palm of one hand. And, while that was a precious sight to behold, even better than bunnies or seals, we had in our company the cheeriest, smiliest dog in the place: our Maisie Moon, living her best life and loving every second of it.
No. We didn't have to travel into Skagit Valley and back to locate our hearts' desire. Much like Dorothy Gale, we found it practically in our own backyard--only without the trauma of an F5 tornado and the lacerating clutches of evil flying monkeys. On a sunny Sunday afternoon, we discovered life and flowers and happiness here in this familiar hang, walking the annular promenade of a harbor in full bloom.