This past Sunday, we hiked to the top of Mt. Dickerman, about 50 miles NW of my fair city. We went to see our dog Taylor, or at least to see her final resting place. A dog born in the desert, Taylor, or T-Dog, reveled in the mountains and ascended Dickerman several times. A wonderful trail dog, she was always up for a walk or hike or adventure. Always ready to be part of our pack. Always a true joy to be around. Always one to melt my heart with her nose, her soft fur, her facial expressions.
Taylor joined our pack in 1994. She was born at a nearby house, whose steady output of puppies seemed to point to a lack of understanding of some of the fundamentals of biology. From her youth we took her out in the desert around our home in Moab, Utah. She ran with us on a 15-mile mountain bike ride, sat patiently atop the baggage on several multi-day canoe trips, and scrambled up red rock with aplomb dexterity. I only remember tuckering her out once, when she was a puppy on a cross canyon adventure where we had to lift and push her up and through several cracks, little paws clawing the rock to escape to a wider path.
Gorgeous in her thick coat of black and tan, Taylor was not the biggest fan of high temperatures. On a canoe trip in southern Utah, she simply refused to go further on a hike in the heat, which forced us to turn around, but it was okay because back on the river we found a floating beer. Sadly it was of no use to T. Once, on a way-too-hot ridge hike in eastern Washington, she simply crawled into the shrubbery in order to lie down in a stream. In contrast, it was always a pleasure to watch her romp on snow, jumping, biting, snorting; few joys are as beautiful to watch as a dog breakdancing in snow. I only wish I could find such pure happiness.
Like many dogs I have known, Taylor didn’t slow down until the end and maintained her regime of taking me for at least two daily neighborhood walks. When she died, we knew that we wanted her high atop a mountain in a landscape that she and my wife and I had loved. On July 4, 2007, we carried Taylor’s ashes up Mt. Dickerman (we knew she’d appreciate being away from the holiday commotion as she was utterly afraid of fireworks) with our friend Ross, who had known Taylor since she was a pup. At the summit, each of us spoke of our love for Taylor, drank a shot of tequila in her honor, and left her a snack of smoked salmon, the only food she ever took off a counter. We then spread her ashes and had a moment of silence and many tears for our beloved friend.
Every year since, we have ascended Dickerman, always bringing tequila and salmon. We toast her, as well as other lost loved ones, drink our tequila and toss the T-Dog some salmon. And, we usually still tear up. We were so lucky to be in her pack.
My favorite dog poem, the final stanza.
The House-Dog’s Grave
You were never masters, but friends. I was your friend.
I loved you well, and was loved. Deep love endures
To the end and far past the end. If this is my end,
I am not lonely. I am not afraid. I am still yours.
Robinson Jeffers, 1941
I read this lovely Ode today finding myself sad and lonely. Peter’s beloved dog, Boomer, who had been ill for many months, left us for green fields, and trails. Boomer was one of the smartest and best of all the many dogs I have loved over my life. Thanks for sharing this.
Wonderful column, brings back similar memories of mine, thanks