CHAPTER ONE
MAKING THE BEST OF A GRAVE SITUATION
It’s been nearly a year since the last time we visited Abbie’s grave in the great meadow, Datil. It’s a day I’ll always remember–one of those rare November afternoons in these parts where summer’s warmth still lingered amongst all the golden and red hues of autumn. The cruelties of winter seemed a long way off.
Your body had been faltering, a betrayal of sorts that you found upsetting and embarrassing. Simple things that you used to do easily sometimes took noticeable effort. I pretended not to notice most of the time but you knew that I knew. An extended hand or a quick boost would really upset you. Those well-meaning efforts were sometimes met with very mortified facial expressions. “Be as patient with me, John, as I have always been with you!” was what you seemed to be saying.
Being such a proud dog, you wanted to be my loyal companion forever. On that glorious November afternoon, however, I had to take the first step toward eventually letting go of you.
It was a grim task, digging out your grave before winter froze the ground solid. Making it more macabre was the fact that you were there. I was not sure you’d make it through the winter, although I was holding out hopes that you’d make it through to springtime.
You and I had visited Abbie’s grave on a once-a-month basis since she had passed away in late December 2006—eleven times in all. Anything less than a month seemed a little disrespectful; anything more seemed a little weird. The great meadow was one of your favorite spots; you’d jump out of the car and race up over the berm and have a great time exploring while I paid my respects to Abbie. At times, you seemed to understand the significance of her gravesite. You’d sniff around and glance at me solemnly in a way that told me you knew Abbie’s spot was more than just a bare patch of ground. Other times, you were completely oblivious. There was the time you famously took a dump on Abbie’s grave and I stood there dumbfounded, wondering what it all meant, if anything.
Despite your near fifteen years, you were still vital and extremely playful most of the time. I’d often say things to you like “This is where you’re going to end up, Datil! Right here next to Abbie! This is where you belong!” as though verbalizing the inevitable might make it easier on both of us. You’d always grin with your furthest bicuspids sticking out, as though you were saying, “Yeah! Right here next to Abbie! This is where I want to be!”
That afternoon, you parked yourself on a slight knoll a little above where Abbie lies. I didn’t know exactly where to first stick the shovel. Then I looked at you. As only you could express yourself, you seemed to be saying, “Can I be a little above Abbie? I’d like to be able to look after her, just like always. Right here would be perfect!”
I was sold. While I dug your grave with a sober pit in the bottom of my stomach, you took off and proceeded to explore, like you always did. It’s about a one-square-mile swatch of restored prairie that comprises the great meadow. I wasn’t overly concerned about you being gone. You usually checked in occasionally, unlike Abbie, who rarely came back whenever she took off. But that afternoon, after a better part of an hour digging your final resting place, there was no sign of you. I traversed the meadow in a rough grid and came up empty. The sun was going down and I picked up the pace. This was very unlike you, Datil boy!
Finally, I realized you were following me through the brush the whole time. One of those “ha ha” moments only a dog could appreciate. Then you changed the game plan and made me chase after you.
When you ran around at your utmost happiness, you’d use your front paws to paw the air with an upward swipe, then you’d prance forth like an exuberant show dog, which you definitely weren’t. You exaggeratedly pranced around a lot that afternoon, gleefully glancing back to see if I was gaining ground. This cat-and-mouse game went on for a long time. I was sweaty and tired from all the digging. There was an early evening chill sweeping through. Once you were finally collared, it took forever for me to get you to climb the berm and get back into the car.
Looking back now, I wonder if your rambunctious display was more of an effort to ease my mind, to give me one more light-hearted memory of you at one of your favorite places. You knew your time was running out. You were going to romp around the great meadow to your heart’s content one last time.
You were reluctant to say goodbye. I was aggravated and I missed the whole point. Now I’m grateful for the happy memories of our last afternoon at the great meadow.
The next big challenge was getting you through to your fifteenth birthday on December 2nd. I didn’t know how you felt about reaching that goal but it seemed like a worthwhile milestone. Every day during that time seemed slightly more dire than the last. The routine stayed much the same–you didn’t seem to be experiencing discomfort, mainly just weakness. There was simply no more fuel left in your incredible tank.
When your birthday finally did come around, a neighbor had come by to visit that day. You sat at my feet while I sat on the couch. “It’s Datil’s fifteenth birthday!” I exclaimed. While congratulations were being offered, and a bit of a fuss being made about you, you absorbed it all while absolutely gloating. Your grin seemed about a mile wide. That had to have been your proudest moment Datil!
Eleven days later, you were gone.
I don’t like to think about those last days. Your body was giving way; I tried to hold you and comfort you as best I could. Emotionally it was difficult because I knew you’d get upset if you saw me upset. You tried your hardest not to upset me, you really did. You were strong and patient and extremely devoted to me to the end.
You managed to give me fifty weeks of companionship and love after Abbie passed away. During the last week of your life, you stretched out on the bed next to me and solemnly stared at me until I fell asleep. “It’s about that time, John! It won’t be long now. I’m ready to go. It’s been a great ride!”
It was a great ride, Datil. You had a great life. You were a great companion. In many ways, you were the perfect friend. The greatest pal ever!
CHAPTER TWO
ORIGINS
You were named in honor of a hitchhiking trip Renee and I took in late November 1992. I was a first-year teacher on the Alamo Navajo reservation in central New Mexico back then. Alamo was a very stark and desolate place, about as far away from civilization as I’d ever been. Its main claim to fame, if Alamo had any, was that they were the last community in the lower forty-eight states to receive electricity. That took place in 1967, if memory serves me correctly.
The climate and attitudes the Alamo people had toward outsiders was chilly. It was obvious the white man had done some serious damage to these people and few were going to soon forget. Nevertheless, most of my experiences with the Alamo people were extremely positive. When things weren’t so positive, I refused to let myself be anything but amused at the situation. The key toward outsider survival there was being able to understand how everything was completely opposite of how one thought things should be. By surrendering all preconceptions and expectations, disappointment was never possible.
Living at Alamo wasn’t like living on another planet. It was more like being blasted completely out of the solar system. There weren’t stores that one could walk to. Nor were there restaurants or bars or even street corners where one could hang out. There were lots of arroyos that one could hike down and lots of mesas and interesting geologic formations worth exploring.
Abbie and I had moved to Alamo during the summer of ’92 when she was about two. Horses and goats grazed right outside my front door, giving Abbie the chance to prove her bark was worse than her bite. Alamo was a good place to be a dog. Neighbors who eventually became friends had lots of pets. Karen was a single science teacher who had two huge Alaskan malamutes, well over 100 pounds each. She was tantalizingly attractive and she seemed to enjoy tantalizing me whenever I visited her. Candida was a married art/journalism teacher who hated Karen and her husband seemed to hate me. Candida was a blast to be around though and I loved her. She had a whole squadron of pets that Abbie enjoyed playing with.
My childhood friend Renee from Chicago had received several letters from me that fall which described the surreal world of Alamo. She was now living in Virginia. Intrigued, she decided to fly out during the week of Thanksgiving to visit me and check things out.
Growing up across the alley from each other, Renee and I had always straddled the line between being enemies and friends. It was the type of neighborhood where you had to swear out allegiances to your block and technically we lived on different blocks. So although we never hung out together, we knew all the same people and we were at a lot of places at the same time.
A couple years after high school let out, we met up on the sidewalk and caught each other up on our lives. Renee had just returned from hitchhiking out to Wenatchee, Washington to do some summer apple picking. On her way back, she hitched through Glacier National Park. Renee was all abuzz about how beautiful the place was. I had just gotten back from three weeks of hitching out west myself. We instantly seem to recognize we were kindred spirits, even aside from the hitching aspect. That was such a momentous day in our relationship. From that day forward, Renee has always been the person in my life whom I have loved the most.
Renee and I always wanted to hitch together but we could never get things together long enough to pull a trip off. There wasn’t anything to do at Alamo, that much was definite. Even though it was late November and the weather was quite cold, I knew we were going to do our first hitch.
I found a neighbor to take care of Abbie before we took off. The towns in the countryside around Alamo are all very interesting and historical in nature. The nearest town, Magdalena, New Mexico, was an old mining hamlet that had kind of an artsy vibe. Socorro, 26 miles to the east, was reaching by driving down the mountain from Magdalena. That’s one of my all-time favorite towns. I’ve always felt very comfortable in Socorro. Datil, 26 miles west of Magdalena, is just a restaurant, motel, small grocery and post office, about 60 residents in all. Datil is all about ranching. There was an extremely hot waitress who worked at the restaurant in Datil who probably kept the place in business all by herself. She was really the only reason to stop in Datil.
So Renee and I were finally hitching! We hung out in Socorro and overnighted there. We backtracked up to Magdalena and had a big breakfast on a Saturday morning. Then we toured the VLA radar facility on the Plains of San Agustin right outside of town. They’re using giant telescopes that are set up on mobile tracks to check out what’s going on in distant galaxies. A trippy place! Then we set out for Datil.
The Eagle’s Nest Café Grocery and Motel is the main deal in Datil. They have great burritos but they’re only served up on Wednesdays. We stopped in the café and munched out for a while. I was sorry to find out my favorite waitress wasn’t working that day. Although this was extremely conservative ranching country, this waitress was amazingly fresh-faced and had a very hippie-like, robust appearance. She always gave the impression she’d fit right in at a Rainbow gathering, throwing around a Frisbee in a muddy bikini, never spilling her beer. I always wanted to ask her what the hell are you doing in Datil, New Mexico?
The sun sets early that time of year but since there was a motel attached to the café, Renee and I had no worries about getting stuck in the dark and not getting rides. We proceeded to drink several cocktails, just happy to relax together and get caught up on old times.
Local people would walk by us and ask, “You’re going to the dance tonight, aren’t you?” Gradually, we caught wind of a dance that was taking place at the community center just up the highway a bit. After quite a few people asked us the same question, we were tempted to go check it out but we downed a lot more drinks instead. When the café closed up early so the employees and owners could also go to the dance, that kind of sealed it for us. We were extremely wasted, it sounded like fun, we had been invited!
I had on a heavy Carharts flannel shirt and jeans that made it look like I’d been neutering bulls all day. Renee was also all decked out in denim and she had a bandana around her neck that looked like she’d spent the day milking goats. We instantly realized that although we very extremely urban creatures, we looked like we’d been born and raised in Datil our whole lives. Actually, Al Sharpton was more country than we were.
The dance hall was packed, probably a couple hundred people of all ages. We didn’t know how to country dance but it was easy to promenade around and imitate everyone. People looked at us like they thought they knew us but they really couldn’t remember. That vibe was overpowering. Being wasted kind of added to the hilarity of the situation. New dances would be called and we would just imitate what everyone was doing. We’d twirl other partners around and we really got drunkenly into it. Most of the night, Renee and I were laughing so hard we were actually crying. We were country!
We had the most fun that night, probably the most fun Renee and I will ever have. The Datil folks were so accepting and tolerant of us when we could have been looked upon as being complete jerks. They made us feel welcome.
The next day we hitched around some more and got stuck at a crossroads on Hwy 12 called Apache Creek. There’s only a convenience store/gas station there, nothing else, although the Continental Divide trail crosses right through the intersection. Traffic is very sparse on that highway and it’s all ranchers in pickups. We had a hell of a time getting a ride out of there, and I think it may have been the only time Renee and I ever argued.
I was dressed in a way that looked like I was from the wrong side of the tracks. Denim jacket, denim shirt, denim jeans, too much freaking denim! My hair was way too long for all these ranchers and my moustache didn’t help. Renee decided our inability to flag a ride was based on the fact that I looked like a serial chain-saw killer and she was fuming. We’d stop by the store to drink coffee and try to warm up occasionally but the main thing was we needed to be out there hitching before it got dark. The intersection had no lights.
As afternoon morphed into evening, the temperature dropped precipitously. It must have been close to ten degrees. We weren’t dressed properly. Renee got more and more pissed. I couldn’t exactly pull shears out of my pack and lop all my hair off. Nor could I reach in there and pull out a Brooks Brothers suit. Once the owner of the gas station locked things up at 9 PM and turned off all the lights before he got into his pickup truck, we knew we were totally screwed. It was potentially a life-threatening situation.
Fortunately, the guy let us ride in the bed of his pickup truck for the 12 miles it took to get to the town of Reserve. It was the COLDEST ride ever—Renee and I hugged each other and grit our teeth the whole way. The guy was driving about 70. I tried to calculate the wind chill in my head. When we finally got out in Reserve—the longest 12 mile ride ever—Renee and I were nearly frozen solid.
I’d hitched from Reserve before and was familiar with the town. It sort of looks like the set for a horror movie. The locals were all backwoods types right out of “Deliverance”. A horrible town to hitch from—the absolute worst.
There was a motel right in front of us and that was fortuitous. A sign on a door said “OFFICE’ so Renee cranked the knob and we walked right in. Unlike other motels, there wasn’t really an office where they checked you in. We had walked right into the owner’s living quarters without bothering to knock.
The owner was sitting on a couch half-naked. An afghan on the couch was full of swastikas. We were aghast. It was, to say the least, an extremely awkward situation! Renee and I could barely talk or move. We got our room, though. That was our big night at what we now refer as the “NAZI MOTEL”.
The next day we somehow caught a ride up to Quemado, another quintessential ranching hamlet. We had another unbearably long wait in front of the high school on the east edge of town. Some guy finally felt sorry for us and we didn’t have much trouble finding our way back to Alamo.
It was a hell of an adventure for a three-day hitch. Especially since once could easily drive the route in a couple of hours.
After we got back home, the next night we went for a stroll near where I lived. The day was December 2, 1992. Another chilly night on the rez, but this time we were dressed for it. As we passed a fenced-in area that contained propane tanks for teacher housing, Renee claimed she heard a whining sound from inside the fence.
Renee is completely deaf in one ear and somewhat impaired in the other. It’s not much of a problem though. My hearing isn’t all that great either. We manage. Renee wanted to stop and further investigate what she thought she heard but I told her it was just the howl of the wind ripping through the tanks. The fence around them was eight feet high and it would have taken a lot of effort to get in there.
So we kept walking.
Later that night, though, Renee went back on her own to investigate while I was asleep. She knew it wasn’t the wind that she had heard. She climbed the fence and discovered a very cold and frightened puppy that someone had apparently thrown over the fence. It’s face was all dinged up by rocks people had thrown. Renee knew the puppy was in very bad shape. She thought it might be dying. Reacting as any thinking person would, she gathered him up and brought him home.
I had recently had a puppy that I hoped would be Abbie’s companion during all the time I was at work. Abbie didn’t exactly bond with the puppy but I had hopes that she would. The little guy always slept with me. Then the pup came down with parvo, which is a huge problem on the rez. It was awful watching him die. On his last night, he somehow left my bedroom and curled up under the kitchen table and died. I found him in the morning.
That was a very traumatizing experience for me. I was haunted by the fact that I hadn’t even given the little guy a name. That, compounded by the fact the pup deliberately took it upon himself to spare me from finding his dead body in bed with me that morning, it taught me something about how much love dogs have to offer.
I shared the story of the pup with Renee. She doubted I was ready for another puppy. She was right.
Renee pretty much kept the pup under wraps for the remaining couple days of her visit. I was back at work and not totally up on the situation. The pup peed all over the house and Renee was worried that if I found out, I wouldn’t want to keep it. She was doing her best “mama dog” imitation, feeding the pup and nursing it back to health. Not literally, of course!
The pup was a little black thing who would have easily fit in a small Tupperware container, about the size of one’s palm. He screamed and cried a lot, and he appeared to be only a few days old. His front paws were huge, in contrast to such a tiny body. He seemed to improve each day. Abbie had maternal instincts of her own and she was more curious with the new pup than she had been with the previous one.
Renee is a very talented musician who had written some Native American songs that she wanted to share with the Alamo people. The day before she left, she gave a little concert at the school. After she played a few of her songs, she opened things up for a Q & A session. The first question perfectly summed up Alamo’s attitude toward outsiders.
“When are you leaving?” asked a boy.
We still laugh about that.
I borrowed a car on Wednesday December 5 and drove Renee to the airport in Albuquerque. I was pretty sure she had a great time in New Mexico. We had gotten drunk and danced our asses off, we had met a whole shitload of good people. We even had climbed a mountain on the rez that few non-native people had probably ever scaled.
On the way to Albuquerque, Renee asked if I would please keep the pup. Although she was more sold on it than I was, Abbie needed a friend. Maybe this one would work out. So I agreed to keep him. Then she said, “You should name him Datil!” after our great time in the town of the same name. Renee’s an instinctive person who is right about things more times than not. Sometimes she’s a little far-out but we’re cut from the same cloth. Dog names should be two syllables and they should be unique. Renee’s logic was irrefutable! So from that moment on, Datil was Datil.
Less than a week after Renee left, I had let Datil out on the front lawn to romp around a bit. He was still just a little tyke. I was inside the house for a moment when something awful happened.
The odds of getting run over by a car at Alamo are about the same as being struck by a meteorite. Especially right in front of where I lived. You’d really have to try hard to hit a dog on that wide, residential street.
But some Alamo idiot managed. It wasn’t a car, actually, but a red pickup truck. I ran out to scoop Datil up, already shrieking in pain. The poor guy’s life had gotten off to such a horrible beginning.
I called a vet in Socorro. He said he’d remain open for a half-hour past closing time in anticipation of us. Socorro was 57 miles away and I didn’t have a vehicle. The people whom I knew had vehicles were not reachable, so I decided to try hitching to Socorro with Datil in my arms. One good thing about the Alamo people was their willingness to pick up hitchers. Ordinarily the waits weren’t long and that afternoon was no exception.
“You need to see the medicine man!” the first ride said. Seeing time slipping by, I didn’t want to risk waiting for another ride. It was hard to think clearly when the options were so few and Datil being in so much obvious pain.
The medicine man lived in a hogan behind the Alamo Trading Post. After a very long time lighting candles and saying things to my ride in Navajo, I asked my ride what was going on.
“He says the dog appears to be in a lot of pain,” the ride said.
Infuriated, we immediately got the hell out of there. It was dark by now. I spent the evening at home. Datil screamed all night. His pain seemed agonizing. I let him sleep with me but I wasn’t sure if he’d make it.
The next day, we finally had a friend drive us to Socorro. Datil’s clavicle was broken, not such a bad deal when all the other possibilities were considered. He required an overnight stay at the vet. The next day he was all bandaged up but the prognosis was good.
That was just the first of many medical calamities Datil experienced.
CHAPTER THREE
HAPPY MEMORIES
While Abbie had a face about the size of Lincoln’s face on Mt. Rushmore, you grew into a very striking dog in your own right. God’s paintbrush couldn’t have done a finer job! You were mainly black, but your snout was white, as was all your belly fur. You also had a couple perfectly symmetrical white splotches atop your head. You quickly grew to be about twice Abbie’s size, about fifty pounds all told. People would often gush about how beautiful you and Abbie were.
You were ostensibly just a mutt like Abbie. A friend insisted quite often that you were part coyote. More knowledgeable dog experts eventually debunked those claims. The consensus seemed to be you were part German Shepard. That would have explained your intelligence and your loyalty. Whenever people asked what you were aside from German Shepard, I always said very tongue-in-cheekly that you might be part Navajo. The way those crazy Alamo ’mofos were inbreeding, it wasn’t totally unfeasible for you to have had a little Navajo in you at one time or another.
The first half of your life, you were definitely the alpha dog, Datil. Testosterone almost literally frothed out of your mouth. You could be a real handful at times.
A friend once had a full-sized, very realistic looking cast iron deer statue in her back yard. The first time we visited, you seized upon the situation, all crouched down in pre-attack mode. You crept up slowly toward the creature and then you . . . attacked! You leapt wildly toward its chest, clamping your jaw down as hard as you could while in mid-leap. The statue never budged. You walked around a little sheepishly after that.
You quickly grew into an athletic dog who could go from 0-60 in 1.2 seconds flat. You once achieved a top-end speed of 139 MPH while chasing a very terrified rabbit. Your highest gear was reserved for when I was getting your food ready! You had an extremely impressive standing vertical leap, always punctuated by the always-scary snapping of your teeth.
You scared the daylights out of many kids who innocently rode by on bicycles in your alpha dog years, something I attributed to the Alamo kids on bikes who probably pelted you with rocks the day they tried to kill you. That scarred you, as it would scar anyone.
Abbie was the Paris Hilton of dogs. She knew she was cute and she knew how to work it. Abbie always believed she was entitled to universal affection whether she deserved any or not. You were not nearly as assuming. Abbie’s life seemed to be devoted to immediate self-gratification. Your life, Datil, on the other hand, seemed more fixated on living in harmony with Abbie and me. You understood your role. You definitely got it. You deferred to both of us.
There were a few times when I would come home from work and it seemed you were about to rip Abbie apart limb by limb. Abbie could be annoying whenever she wasn’t entertaining or amusing. Other times you were extremely protective of her.
We had hillbilly Mormon neighbors living behind us who had about twenty always-unsupervised kids and a very menacing Rottweiler. Their dog got loose one day and attacked Abbie while she was in the yard. She was cut up badly enough to where she needed medical attention. At your first opportunity, you managed to escape a few days later and you immediately went looking for the Rottweiler. I was running behind you but it was obvious you were going to try to square things up with Abbie’s attacker.
Size disadvantage meant nothing to you. You were seeking revenge and there was no stopping you. After a preliminary lunge, the Rottweiler simply bit your foreleg to the point of nearly severing it. I scooped you up, carried you to my pickup truck and drove you to the vet as fast as possible. It was too gruesome of an injury for me to even look at. Your left front paw was dangling by only a few threads!
Miraculously, the vet said you stood a chance of surviving. Even more miraculously, his trained specialty was inserting steel and titanium rods into the forelegs of severely injured animals. You came through the surgery well. That vet in Hermiston, Oregon saved your life that day. It was the beginning of you being the “bionic dog”.
Soon afterward, you were still limping around gingerly with the lampshade around your head so you wouldn’t open up your bandaged wound. I’m sure you considered the lampshade worse than your original injury. Oh how you hated it! I headed out to the local convenient store for a pack of smokes one afternoon. It was about a half-mile shortcut across an adjoining park, then a careful crossing of Hwy 395, the busiest highway in that part of eastern Oregon.
As I walked into the store, the clerk screamed, “Oh my God! I turned around to see you following me into the store just before the door closed, still wearing your lampshade. You had jumped out of a bedroom window and plunged about four feet to the ground on your way out of the house.
From that moment on, I took your lampshade off. Your rehab was officially over!
When we were living in Stanfield, our next-door neighbor Pam would often go to the local slaughterhouse and bring back huge, dinosaur-sized bones with raw meat still on them. She’d toss them over the fence so you and Abbie would enjoy them. You’d chew on those bones for days! Pam loved you and Abbie more than she loved her own dogs.
The house we lived in back then was surrounded by a fenced yard both in the front and in the back. I could leave the back door open and you’d have free access to the outdoors while I was at work. You always had a weird thing with socks and underwear during your alpha dog stage. Socks were chew toys and underwear needed to be strewn about the house while I was working. One day I came home from work and discovered you had strewn all my underwear around the front yard!
Despite your steel rod, you loved to swim. You weren’t very graceful but you got the job done. You always had a very intense look on your face while you flailed around in the water, like a paddlewheel tugboat in low gear. If I were out floating around on a hot summer day in the middle of the Columbia River’s shipping lane, you’d swim out to me, then you’d encircle me and paddle furiously back to shore.
All the lakes and rivers you swam in are too innumerable to mention. You paddled around in everything from the glacier-fed Athabasca River in Alberta, to the Gila River, which eventually disappears in the Arizona desert. A non-descript rural bridge over the Umatilla River between Stanfield and Pendleton may have been your favorite swimming spot. I know it was for me. There was also a memorable time when you swam too far out into the Missouri River current at a Lewis and Clark interpretative site near Mandan, North Dakota. I thought you were going to end up in New Orleans!
When we traveled, Abbie was always a road dog and you were always the destination dog. Abbie would have goofy staring contests with drivers that we’d pass on the highway. She was always interested in what was beyond the next hill, what was around the next curve. You pretty much slept the whole time while we traveled. I think it was because you trusted me to take you to places where you could explore and roam around freely. It was pretty rare when you jumped out of the truck and were disappointed.
Whenever we came across horses or cows during our travels, however, you would bark at them maniacally until the last one disappeared from view. Oh, how you hated horses and cows! I am sure you blew out some of my hearing while expressing your contempt. Sometimes I’d exclaim, “Datil there’s a cow!” while you snoozed, which would make you bolt upward and start barking. It got to the point where I couldn’t even mention the word ‘cow’ when you were around. You would simply erupt!
Taking the game a step further, I would sometimes say, “Datil there’s a hippopotamus! There’s a duck-billed platypus! There’s an octopus!” You hated being teased like that. You didn’t like being trifled with. Being a dog was serious stuff!
You had many notable encounters with other members of the animal kingdom. A kitten turned up on our doorstep in Stanfield one winter night. I took him in for the evening until better arrangements could be made for him the next morning. Abbie utilized all her maternal instincts by curling up around the kitten, keeping him all warm and toasty all night. You had to be locked in a spare room that evening because you considered that kitten to be a tasty little snack.
Another time you jumped out of the back of the pickup at 35 MPH to chase a deer through woods that adjoined the Mississippi River. Then Abbie jumped out the passenger window to give additional chase. You guys could be impulsive!
Then there was the time you had a face-to-face encounter with a gigantic moose that was grazing along the road that cut through the Absaroka Wilderness south of Canmore, Alberta. You leaned out the window and stared at that magnificent moose for a good five minutes from only a few feet away. The moose stared back. It was late in your life and I think you were in such awe of that creature that you never took a breath the entire five minutes we were there.
Once you took off for a few days and I was beginning to think you were gone for good. Pam would drive around and look for you while I was at work. I had put up a poster of you inside the Stanfield post office. But as one day turned into two, and two into three, I was beginning to reconcile myself to the possibility you wouldn’t be coming back.
Then Jody, the secretary at work, left a bizarre voice mail message for me. “Your dog is in doggy jail.” I didn’t understand what she meant. Doggy jail—wtf? Had you committed a series of crimes?
It turned out you were at the pound. They held you for a king’s ransom before they would release you to me. But eventually, we had an extremely happy reunion.
That was another example of how different you and Abbie were. When I’d finally track down Abbie after she had taken a happy jaunt through the neighborhood, she’d look at me very laconically as if to say, “I guess you found me, huh? I guess I’m stuck with you again.”
Whenever I would reunite with you, Datil, you were always extremely happy. “Oh God, I was so lost! I looked for the house and I couldn’t find it! I was so worried! Thank you for finding me! I won’t escape again, at least for a while, I promise!”
CHAPTER FOUR
SMARTS
Your intelligence could be amazing at times, Datil boy!
There was the time Rasa and I were walking you and Abbie on leashes in front of the house during a rare peaceful time in our relationship. You saw a squirrel or rabbit and immediately bolted. You nearly jerked Rasa’s arm right out of its socket. Rasa had spent most of our relationship jerking me around. You were a very smart dog, Datil. But could you appreciate irony?
Another time you escaped during rush hour in the fairly large urban area where we lived. I drove around frantically looking for you. Unlike Abbie, who typically would dart through traffic as though traffic didn’t exist, you were somewhat mindful of traffic after that truck ran over you. That day, however, you were nowhere to be found. It was a bad time of day for you to be running around. I cringed while driving down busy streets. Then lo and behold, you finally turned up in one of those Plexiglas bus shelters, facing the on-coming traffic, patiently waiting for the next bus!
My proudest memory of you probably was when we were at Cliff Park for what turned out to be our last visit. Abbie was quite old; you were just a year younger but physically you were more active. Cliff Park is a network of narrow trails through a wooded area that crosses several ravines before ending at an overlook above Lake Michigan. We used to go there about once a month.
The cliffs at Cliff Park seem reminiscent of the white cliffs of Dover. The highest cliff is a narrow promontory point that juts out 150-200 feet over the lake. The cliff itself is an ancient hillside that probably collapsed into the lake a few millenniums ago. There’s a grassy area right below the top that gently slopes. Below that, there’s a steep sixty-five degree angle drop to the lakeshore. It’s all gravel and loose rock.
We’d stood atop that cliff many a time and none of us ever gave serious thought of descending any further than the base of the grassy patch. I never fully dismissed the idea of trekking down that slope to the beach at the bottom but it would have been a very technical descent. One would probably need a crash helmet, a couple hundred feet of rope and some type of axe to steady one’s self from losing a foothold. The gravel on the slope was extremely treacherous and often wet.
That afternoon, I stood in horrification as Abbie merrily danced down the slope, getting braver by the second. Yelling at her wasn’t going to turn her ass around. It only encouraged her more. Then you, Datil, proceeded to follow Abbie down to the shore, a little more cautiously. In disbelief, I saw two little black dots running around on the beach. You seemed to be having a great time! I was mortified and I don’t mortify easily.
I realized Abbie wasn’t smart enough to figure out the correct line up the cliff, nor was she strong enough in her old age. The cliff extends a few miles to the south before there is reasonable beach access. To the north is a nuclear power plant that is off-limits to everyone. I stood there at a complete loss as to what to do. The best option, I figured, was to try to get to the bottom of the cliff.
I was about a third of the way down when I no longer could see you, Datil boy. I wasn’t too worried about you because you were pretty good when it came to extracting yourself from dangerous predicaments. Abbie was the opposite. She enjoyed running through campfires and performing other death-defying feats.
Something made me gaze up toward the top of the cliff where all this unnecessary drama began. There you were, Datil, mysteriously reappearing at the top with a very mischievous grin on your face.
“GO GET ABBIE, DATIL!” I cried. “WILL YOU PLEASE GO DOWN AND GET HER?”
You understood and you obeyed like you usually did. You danced down the slope, you met up with Abbie, you showed her the proper line. You had found a gully on the other side of a serrated ridge that sliced all the way down the cliff. It was completely out of my view. I don’t know if you led the way or if you followed Abbie up. It seems likely you led her. Regardless, you showed some real intelligence and strength that day! You showed how much you cared about Abbie. You were a good problem-solver!
In the last months of Abbie’s life, she found it increasingly difficult to go up the stairs where we lived. You would always lead the way. You’d get to the first landing and then you would wait for her. While Abbie was collecting herself before ascending the last flight of stairs, you’d wait with her. Then you’d accompany her up. “Don’t worry Abbie! I’m with you, bro! These stairs aren’t much fun for me either!”
Before we lived in eastern Oregon near the Columbia River, we lived in Christmas Valley, a small hamlet in Oregon’s epicenter. That was probably your finest natural element. I’d let you and Abbie out—you had unlimited free range to roam the sagebrush country. Many times I’d see very scraggly looking coyotes limping around the area. You were probably the reason so many of them seemed to be in such bad shape. As evidence, you proudly maintained a pile of coyote bones behind our trailer! Once I watched you drag a coyote skull toward the pile to add to your bone collection. It was kind of a heavy mother and it took you considerable effort!
I always had a premonition Abbie was going to succumb to a rattlesnake bite. We lived in rattlesnake country for many years. Abbie was a curious soul. It seemed inevitable she would want to entertain herself or try to make friends with a rattlesnake eventually.
We were hiking one time in Saline Valley, California, an extremely desolate and wondrous place adjoining Death Valley. Hiking up Beveridge Canyon, you and Abbie had raced up the trail ahead of me. I had forgotten my rattlesnake premonition that afternoon. Then I heard the unmistakable hissing sound. The trail was arduous and not easy to run up. My heart sank when I realized the nearest vet was probably two or three hours away.
But then you and Abbie were racing down the trail towards me! You had somehow turned Abbie around and gotten her out of there. You had realized a dangerous situation and made a good decision!
You could be awfully smart at times, Datil, but did you have the higher-order thinking skills to appreciate natural beauty? Many times we would be driving along the Oregon coast or through the Columbia River gorge west of where we lived. We’d have the ocean or a lovely river expanse on one side and a dreary embankment or a series of businesses on the other side. You’d always seem to be more interested in the beautiful side. Was that a coincidence or a conscious choice?
The question was finally answered to my satisfaction while we camped in the Canadian Rockies one night. It was late fall and I selected a camping spot below a ridge to hopefully provide a windbreak. Whenever we’d set up camp, Abbie would always take off while you would follow me around while I looked for firewood. You seemed to enjoy taking a supervisory role.
I had forgotten about Abbie’s propensity for taking off and all the previous hours wasted looking for her during and after the firewood routine. That afternoon, you and Abbie vanished during the search for wood. The sun was sinking behind the ridge and I was getting a little worried. I decided to climb the ridge to see if I could assess the situation better.
There you and Abbie were, lying side by side like a boy and a girl on a first date—watching a glorious Canadian sunset!
CHAPTER FIVE
PROUD SPIRIT
There’s a duck pond behind the bank that we’d occasionally frequent. In your earlier years, you wanted to eat all the ducks. You were a genocidal duck maniac. Towards the end, though, you wanted to swim with the ducks. You wanted to frickin’ be a duck! You’d act a little hurt when the ducks declined to swim with you.
I drive by that pond often and it is difficult to think about how you are no longer terrorizing those ducks.
The lighthouse is another place where your memories run thick. I have never been there without you, Datil; it is doubtful I can ever go back. You and Abbie had so much fun at the lighthouse!
There’s a beach below the lighthouse where you loved to swim. Abbie would run around and introduce herself to all the locals and to all the tourists milling about. There were manicured gardens where you guys loved to take dumps.
On our last visit there, a large tent had been set up for some type of lighthouse re-dedication ceremony. You weren’t interested in swimming beyond getting your feet wet. I think it was your way of informing me you were aware this might be your last lighthouse visit. You were a different Datil that day, much more fascinated by any scents you could uncover on the beach. Your focus had become much more narrow.
A man approached with his young son in tow and asked if his son could pet you. That was a fairly common request. You loved getting stroked on the top of your head, the gentler the better. While the man and I were talking, the boy stroked your head while you sat there grinning wildly.
You let the boy gently rub the fur on the top of your head for about ten minutes while the man and I spoke. I’m sure you were aware of your mortality by then and the accumulation of great times we had at the lighthouse. You derived so much fun from those lighthouse visits. Now it was time to pass those great memories forward, to give something back.
You loved having your picture taken, unlike Abbie, who seemed to believe photographs were exploitive. You would pose forever in front of the camera. “What if I turned a little this way? Are you sure you don’t need a flash?”
I have several rolls of undeveloped film of you and Abbie. I know when those pictures do get developed, it will be a very emotional day for me.
You hated the fireworks on the Fourth of July. They terrified you. We often would travel to remote places in hopes of avoiding firecrackers and fireworks, but we were rarely successful. I hope wherever you are now, it is a firework-free zone!
From the ferocity and wildness of your youth to your charmed middle years to the stoic dignity of your last days, I think what I saw in you was a reflection of my own life and my own mortality. Your life was a microcosm of my life. Your trials and tribulations mirrored mine.
You had only me to sweeten your last days and I’m sure they weren’t sweet enough. We grieved over Abbie’s loss for those last fifty weeks. It was heart-breaking seeing how desperately you missed her. You had grooved off Abbie’s crazy vibe your entire life. Now you were on your own. If you could have curled up and died once you realized Abbie wasn’t coming back, I know you would have. I wanted to curl up and die too.
From Renee to Karen to Candida to Diane from Fort Rock to Karen and Michael to Shelia to Marjorie to Laurel, everyone seemed to enjoy being in your company as much as you enjoyed being in theirs. It was always unanimous. You were a solid dog!
Candida said after you passed away, “You have to believe there will be a time when you and Datil and Abbie will meet up again. You have to believe!”
I hope you are right, Candida!
So now you are in the great meadow next to Abbie. Together forever, hopefully. Abbie is probably off doing her own thing. You probably are a few steps behind, keeping a respectful distance, making sure Abbie is all right.
May the both of you be eternally happy and healthy and full of vigor. Most of all, I hope you are living free without any constraints. I know that your that loving spirits will always be shining down on me. I feel them every day.