2019-10-01Travel+Leisure

The author’s dog,

Toby, finds a hiding

place in a coastal

Maine cottage.

CO

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SY

OF

PE

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R^ T

ER

ZI

AN

T

O DRIVE from Brooklyn

to Midcoast Maine’s

Pemaquid Peninsula

takes roughly seven hours. For

years, my husband, Caleb, and I

have made the trip with Toby, our

butterscotch-colored shepherd

mix, in a tiny Honda Fit that

quickly fills with a cloud of fur

and dog breath. Toby can only

tolerate the ride by curling his

50-pound frame around the feet

of the front passenger. But once

we reach our rental cottage, his

senses are overwhelmed by the

scent of brine and the sounds of

woodland animals. In the

morning, we wake to find him

resting his chin on our bed: Guys,

I have to get out there and protect

you from the rabbits and squirrels.

Toby was three months old

when we found him at a shelter

in Long Island. On morning

gambols in Prospect Park, he

scarfed down picnic remains,

tinfoil and all, as we ran behind

shouting like cartoon characters.

How, we wondered, did two

bookish, almost-middle-aged

gay men end up with such a

bro dog? But this little toughie

soon became affectionate. On

our drives to Maine, when we

stop to stretch our legs in

TRAVELS WITH TOBY

For two men and their energetic dog, summer vacations in

Maine are a lesson in seizing the day.

BY PETER TERZIAN

Portsmouth, New Hampshire,

he trots through the main

shopping district, bat ears

unfurled, approaching everyone

for a pat or a scratch. (We’ve

nicknamed him the Mayor

of Portsmouth.)

As Toby changed, Caleb and

I changed too, becoming a bit

more jockish as we followed

him up Midcoast’s hiking trails.

Toby has scampered up most

of the peaks around Camden,

including all 1,280 feet of Bald

Mountain. After our hikes, we

stop at Muscongus Bay Lobster,

in the quaint village of Round

Pond, which puts an end to

any conversation about the best

lobster roll in Maine. Toby

sprawls under our table, sniffing

around for fallen morsels.

Even though it feels as if we

just brought him home, Toby is

now 11 years old and his hiking

days are long past. I don’t like

thinking about Maine without his

nose pressed against the sliding

glass door of our cottage, ready

to embrace the day. But for now,

he has enough energy to play

with one of us each night after

dinner while the other washes

up. I think he’s still got a few road

trips to go.

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