Abbie by John

My beloved Abbie packs in a full life’s journey before she finally packs it in. Abbie was such a sweet girl.

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I’m going to have to bury you somewhere tomorrow, Abbie. It’s going to be extraordinarily difficult to have to say my final goodbye to you, dear friend. Hopefully there’ll be a good spot in the woods near the chip trail you loved to scamper down. I owe it to you to find a good final resting place.

You gave me sixteen years, four months, and two days of devoted love, Abbie, and God only knows how old you were when we met that night in Silver City, New Mexico. I suspect you were already two or three by then.

Do you remember how we first met? I sure do.

I was a starving college undergrad living in Silver City in August 1990. Times were tough. Twice a year, a check for my PELL Grant would arrive in the mail, and after paying for books and tuition, there would usually be enough left over to go to the bar and celebrate.

The night was August 28, 1990. I had forty extra bucks and headed straight for the Buffalo Bar right on Hudson Street. Before I could really tie one on, a woman pulled up a chair alongside of me and was trying too hard to be friendly. She wasn’t my type and I thought I made that clear to her but she would not give up. It’s not as though women constantly insist I take them home and bag them, but this one was certainly hinting at that.

So I drained my last beer and headed out into the night in a bit of a huff. About a block and a half up the street, I turned around to see if the woman was following me. She wasn’t . . . but you were, Abbie.

I was so taken aback by you, this little longhaired black mutt behind me, that a block later, I sat down on the curb with you, Abbie, and we had a little talk.

“I don’t mind if you spend the night at my place, girl. But it just can’t be a one night thing. Do you understand?”

Abbie nodded her head.

“In fact, if you do come home with me, I expect a serious relationship. Ten years, at least. Until the year 2000. If, at that time, you want to opt out or renegotiate, then we can talk.”

Abbie gave me an understanding look. She must have walked home with me, but I don’t recall any of that.

The next morning I woke with a bit of a hangover and a filthy black mutt in bed with me. Caked mud was all over the sheets. For a moment, I didn’t remember the previous night’s conversation with Abbie, but then it all came back to me. So I tossed Abbie in the shower and then I joined her. Once Abbie got through the showering ordeal and I cleaned her up, we decided to start living together.

Abbie got her name after two celebrated Abbies had recently passed away, Abbie Hoffman the yippie activist, and Edward Abbey the writer. Both had a tremendous impact on me and I was still lamenting their passings. Abbie more than lived up to her namesakes, although she wasn’t very good at staging protests or writing books.

The times in Silver City were difficult and you and I had some tough times, Abbie. We lived in a duplex apartment and our neighbor was a guy named Mark, a cowboy who had fallen off his horse and suffered a serious brain injury. Mark wasn’t all quite “there”, but he loved you so much Abbie. There was the time you ran away in the dead of winter, during heavy snow, and you were missing for three days and three nights. Temperatures were well below freezing at night and I began to seriously doubt whether you could survive those chilly nights on your own.

According to Mark, as the story goes, you walked in the front door of the Grinder Mill Restaurant on College Avenue around midnight on a Friday night. Mark recognized you and brought you back home. What a happy occasion it was to reunite with you!

There was the time you must have escaped from the front yard in Silver City when I was away at class. You were back in the yard when I returned home, but your tail was all bloody and broken. You probably had been hit by a car. I ran up to the campus library and found a friend who convinced a friend of a friend to let me borrow her car so I could race you to the vet. Your beautiful tail had to be amputated. I think you had a hard time dealing with the loss because you used your tail to communicate with me.

In time though, you managed to grow your hind fur out long enough that it appeared you had a mangy blonde and brown tail. Good work, Abbie!

Another time, we were camping on Turkey Creek and we were hammered by a nasty hail storm with no trees around for protection. We finally did find a tree to stand under and we still got nailed. You were SO MAD at me Abbie!

The next day, I decided to take you on a hike on the slickrock high above the Gila River. The trail eventually deteriorated into a faint animal path, and then it disappeared completely. We were about 100 feet above the river, and I was in a spot where I could not go forward, backward, up or down without plunging to my death far below. The rock was too steep and slick to even try to turn around.

In that heart-stopping moment, I looked ahead and you were merrily trotting around on slickrock that could only accommodate the most nimble of four-legged animals. You looked at me, Abbie, as though to say, “Come on! Can’t you go any further? Stuck in a bad spot, are you? What a wimpy guy YOU are!”

So yes, we definitely had our moments, Abbie.

A few months after you moved in with me, I was having a bowl of soup while on my sofa for a leisurely lunch. You pushed your way in from outside through the screen door while I was reading the paper and then I heard loud screeching and yapping sounds. I thought you had dragged in a rabbit or a mouse, but no, that would have been expected of you. Unbeknownst to me, Abbie, you were pregnant and you were giving birth right in the middle of my noon hour!

It was one of rare times where I absolutely had to go to class in the afternoon and I remember how difficult it was to leave you alone in the house while you were giving birth. Then, upon returning home a couple hours later, Abbie, you had thoughtfully jumped into my bed with four or five bloody, oily, screaming live puppies! Being such a proud mom, you had covered them up under the sheets!

Sadly, not one of your pups survived for more than a few days. The last one I remember burying up on Boston Hill above where we lived. I think maybe you were too young to have puppies when you had them.

In 1992, I finally moved onto my first teaching job on a Navajo reservation in Alamo, New Mexico. That was a fine in-the-middle-of-nowhere experience, similar to living on the moon. Do you remember how twice a week we used to walk to the trading post to collect our mail on a sheep path that switchbacked down from the mesa? We hooked up with Datil, your brother dog at Alamo towards the end of 1992. You were a little jealous and wary of Datil at the beginning, but you grew to love Datil as much as I did.

Up until today when you left us, Abbie, you and Datil were the greatest brother/sister dog companions in history. Datil already misses you. He’s gonna have a tough go of it.

Then we moved on. To Union, Oregon in NW Oregon. To Christmas Valley, in the central Oregon desert. To Otis, on the Oregon coast. Back to Christmas Valley again, where I recuperated from back surgery. Walking you guys on leashes after the surgery was murder on my back! You enjoyed trying to see if you could make my sutures pop out, didn’t you?

Eventually we lived across the highway from the Columbia River between Irrigon and Umatilla, Oregon. We had own little desolate beach to romp around on, remember? Lots of sand dunes and burrs that got stuck between your paws.

We spent four or five years living in Stanfield, Oregon in a little box house with a fenced back yard. On hot summer days, we’d drive up to Wallula Gap on the Columbia River near the Washington–Oregon state line and go swimming. What a great spot that was. You preferred to check everything out on the shore while Datil and I swam.

Another favorite spot was under the I-84 bridge over the Columbia River at Umatilla. That was always a Sunday morning thing for us, remember? You loved checking everything out in the shade under that bridge and slurping up all that radioactive Columbia River water downwind from the nuke plant.

Your best quality, Abbie, was that you always enjoyed socializing with strangers. Just about everyone was totally taken with you. Although there were many times when you wandered off, I could usually find you schmoozing with some new-found friends.

But there were many, many times when I thought you had wandered off for good. Do you remember the time we were driving around SE Washington on a Saturday in early March? I stopped at a boat launch area on the Snake River so you could go out and run around for awhile, which you did. I watched in amusement as you chased a flock of geese into the river, only to watch you and them completely disappear. It took awhile to realize you had not re-emerged, and when I walked to where you last were seen on land, the horrible truth just floored me.

Abbie, you plunged off a concrete lip right into the icy, swiftly moving Snake River. There was no sign of you whatsoever. No water bubbles. Nothing. I stared at the inky water for about five minutes in disbelief. Where you plunged in, there was no embankment for you to scamper up. Had you managed to surface even for a moment to catch your breath, the current would have swept you to your death. Heartbroken, I said a prayer for you and slowly walked to my vehicle. The thought of driving all the way home without you was unbearable. What a tragic mistake it was to sit in my car and watch you chase those geese!

But as soon as I got to the car, you came running up out of nowhere! Dripping wet, shivering, and with a big loopy grin on your face! You had faced death, Abbie, and you had beaten it!

I resolved on the way home with you that day to cherish each remaining day with you, Abbie. That a day would not go by where I didn’t tell you how much I loved you. That I would dedicate my life to savoring each and every moment with you because you were such a precious gift.

It was a hell of a good ride, Abbie, you’ll have to admit.

Unlike other women in my life, Abbie, you never broke up with me via e-mail and you never tried to make me feel guilty for loving you. You never had any eating disorders and you were never hopped up on psychotropic medications, nor in obvious need of any. You coveted your independence like most girls your age. You loved to go shopping at Petco because you could pee right in the aisles.

You loved being in nature as much as I did and there was never a trail where you failed to lead the way. Even when there wasn’t any trail! We climbed Cookes Peak near Deming, New Mexico in 1991, a tough scramble. You climbed Notch Peak with me in Utah in 1995–a hellacious climb, remember? Not many dogs ever stood at the cusp of that 5,200 foot sheer banded cliff at the summit and I bet you never forgot that view. We got stuck in sand on Thompson Canyon Road with Datil and sister Marjorie in 1993 for three days and nights before that cowboy showed up and rescued us. You didn’t seem to mind being stranded very much. Neither did I, but Marjorie sure was pissed.

You romped through the brackish waters of Death Valley in 1993, 2003, and 2006. You enjoyed the surf on the Oregon coast even though you didn’t know what to make of sea lions. We’d go hit the beach on Lake Michigan on those warm summer nights near our home and you’d personally visit every man, woman, and child there.

Get to know me! I am Abbie!

You famously took off in the middle of the night while we were camping along the Livingston River in Alberta this past year and some kindly old man rescued you on the highway the next morning because you were trapped in a cattle guard. You were stuck right in the middle of the road for several hours. That was a close call because there were logging trucks ripping down that road like you wouldn’t believe. The man said he stopped because he thought you were a little bear cub!

You were in twenty-nine states and four Canadian provinces. We camped on many star lit nights in many of those states and provinces. You loved sleeping on top of picnic tables and pepperoni was your favorite food. Man, you could really scarf those things down!

The last night we ever camped was in October near Fairmont, Minnesota next to a placid lake ablaze with autumn’s golden reflections. Something right out of a Renoir or Monet painting. We had the whole campground to ourselves and you promptly took off and disappeared for awhile. In the middle of the night, the tent was absolutely pounded by a raging hail storm and you awoke me with the most terrified look on your face. Soon after, the tent collapsed and we fled to the car. You were drenched and shivering and I had to hold you in front of the heater for several hours to dry you off. It was such a shame that our last night camping was so disastrous.

Oh, you hated getting rained on and you loved romping through snow. You always let me know through your beautiful brown eyes that I was either letting you back into the house from the back yard too soon or not soon enough. You slept on the front balcony in hot weather and you’d bark at any dog being walked below, as well as at any leaves blowing up the street.

You always rode shotgun in the front seat and constantly had your nose pressed up against the dashboard. Whenever we passed a truck, you’d always look up and flirt with the truck driver. You never cared about where we were going–you just loved to ride!

In the summer, you’d stick your nose right up the car’s air-conditioning vent and in the winter, you’d warm your ears the same way. When long rides got boring, you’d entertain yourself by rolling up and down the windows by standing on the power window switch on the console. You always pretended you did it by accident, too!

You thought you looked most cute with your fur cut short and you’d be exceptionally cooperative whenever I got the shears out. The last time I cut your fur was back in April in Kerrville, TX while we were waiting for the car to be fixed. You and Datil were tied up in the shade behind the dealership and you were dying from the oppressive heat. When you saw me approach with the scissors, you were one happy Abbie, weren’t you?

Whenever I’d come home from work, you’d greet me with a full run and you’d excitedly pound your front paws into my thighs. If the weather was warm and you were in the yard and I was talking to a neighbor, you liked to take a full run when I wasn’t looking and pound me right in the nuts. All twenty-two pounds of you!

Datil always would sleep at the foot of my bed but you always preferred to curl of in a pile of clothes in the other room. Were I to put you on my bed, Abbie, you would never stay more than five minutes before you’d take off.

During the last couple months of your life, though, you would curl up next to me in bed while I was sleeping. Sometimes I’d turn the light on just to make sure it was you. You’d be all stretched out, sound asleep, as comfortable as can be, your head even with mine on the pillow. Slowly, an eye would peer open and you’d smile as though to say, “Yes, I am quite a special dog! Now turn that freaking light off!”

Fortunately, in recent years we were able to revisit many of the places where we lived and hung out. I loved watching you and Datil sniff around those old places, searching for memories that may or may not have existed for you guys. This year, our last year together, we must have put in about 30,000 miles retracing old memories and creating new memories.

You loved going through the drive thru lane at our local Starbucks because Stephanie always made such a big fuss over you. She’d give you a dollop of whipped cream and you’d end up with whipped cream all over your face. Those two minutes when you’d strut around in the front seat and preen for Stephanie while she told you how beautiful you are were always the best two minutes of your day. If you could have hopped in the car and driven anywhere, Abbie, I know you would have gone to Starbucks to visit your friend Stephanie and hang out with her.

After you passed away this evening, and I know it sounds a little morbid, I took you through the Starbucks drive thru one final time with you next to me all wrapped up on the front seat.

A lady at a rest stop once told me what a sweet little puppy you were when you were about twelve years old, and when I told her how old you really were, she said, “It must be nice being a puppy for life!”

And that’s really what you were, Abbie. A puppy for life. A curious, independent-minded little poochy thing who considered everyone a potential friend. You were smitten by people and people were smitten with you.

You’re leaving behind a wealth of memories that will make my soul bubble over–far too many to mention here. I’m glad you went as quickly you did and you’re leaving us right at the end of probably our greatest year together.

Abbie, I know you’ll be as fussy and free-spirited where you are now as you were during your time on this earth. The heavens are going to be littered with pepperoni and millions of strangers whom you can acquaint yourself with.

I wish there was more time to honor all the wonderful memories you provided me with Abbie, but unfortunately, our time finally has run out.

You and I would always play the “Abbie Did You Miss Me?” game whenever I returned from being away. When you were young, I’d ask you “Abbie? Did you MISS me?” and you’d squeal and jump up and down and exuberantly lick my face. As you got older, you’d try to play it cool and not to be so effusive about how much you missed me. But I’d ask you again if you missed me and you’d come over and give me a little kiss. You always missed me.

Now I am going to miss you, Abbie. The price I have to pay for loving you is now dealing with all the grief of losing you. Thank you for your huge presence in my life, and for being such a unique and devoted companion.

My lovely Abbie.

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I just got back from burying Abbie. There was a good spot in a meadow in the nature preserve about 75 yards off the trail we used to hike down on warm summer evenings. It’s fairly close to where Abbie got lost a couple of summers ago. Abbie loved scampering down that trail in the distinctive way she walked, checking out all the scents, seeking out all the known chipmunk locations, taking her own sweet time as we went. Deer are known to roam around that meadow and I think Abbie will be in good company.

Pretty girl you rest in peace.

December 31, 2006