ElkHair
10-06-2005, 04:39 AM
This is a long story, but one I wanted to share. I know some of you will appreciate it.
I found her when she was two years old. A big lab. Her fur was burnt red, a perfect combination of the typical yellow and chocolate. She had dark brown skin around her eyes, making them look painted, like some dolled-up cutie. She was protective, but not aggressive. A good dog for the two older kids and she waited patiently at home when our youngest son was born. As a toddler, he would crawl on her and fall asleep, nestled in her belly.
She was raised to hunt birds, something I didn't do, but she liked stalking fish. She wade close to my left side and sit patiently with the water breaking across her chest. I didn't have to train her to do that. If the water was too deep, she'd sit on the bank, never moving ahead of me. I didn't have to call her back or yell for her when people came around, I'd just quietly say her name. She'd watch them, but never move.
Towards the end of my marriage I'd sit outside late into the night, smoking my last cigarrette and sipping the scotch I'd hidden in the shed - everyone asleep. Bailey would sit with me and we'd try to figure it all out as the stars circled above us, her sighs echoing mine. Finally, I found myself on my own. Court orders, visitation schedules, child support, going back to school; life got busy - too busy to fish. Bailey stayed with the kids. When I'd drop them off after a visit, she'd come to the fence and whine - breaking my heart. Sometimes I'd take a day off work to go fishing and stop by the ex's house and take her with me when everyone was at school or work. It was worth the ass-chewing I'd get for taking "her" dog fishing.
I eventually won joint custody of the children and full custody of my dog. Bailey and I fished the Logan, Ogden, Weber, Uintas, Greys, and many, many more. We camped and kept each other company. She preferred Budweiser over the microbrews and won the heart of a dark haired beauty named Brandy that became my fiance and fishing buddy to boot. They shared taste in beer, and apparently men; sitting together on the bank and watching me with the same amused look while I fished, as if to say, "You're a forgetful bastard, an occasional asshole, and possibly dangerous if left to your own devices, but we love you anyway. Be glad we're here to watch over you.". I got a little jealous of the love between them. We moved into a new house and Bailey seemed to feel the happiness. Her favorite became the apples in our new yard. She'd pluck them from the tree, standing on her hind legs, then hide them in the grass or by the creek till nightfall and try to sneak them inside when I called her in.
She started to get gray about a year ago. Longer trips didn't suit her anymore, she'd come home and sleep through the days. It was sudden. She just stopped eating. By the next day I was carrying her up and down the stairs. A trip to the Animal ER late that night didn't result in any hope. A visit to her regular Vet the next day just confirmed our fears. A large mass - exploratory surgery - sonogram - antibiotics - slim chance. It didn't make sense to put her through that, and the Vet agreed. Brandy and our youngest son petted her as she went to sleep for the last time. She was 14.
I took the next day off, packed the rods and lunch, picked up my oldest son, then my father. We stopped by the Vet. I went in alone. He brought her from the cooler in a box. She was 70 healthy pounds when I'd lifted her by her harness to help her across the Greys this summer - now I was carrying no more than 50.
We drove most of the two hours in silence. Off the highway, onto the state road, then dirt, gaining altitude and marveling at the cloudless azure sky and the yellow of the aspens crowded between the dark green pines. A short drive off the main road, locked in four, onto a two tracker that (thank god) is less driven now than when we first found it. We stopped on a high point overlooking the river, covered by old pines and young aspen - our spot.
My son and I smacked shovels into the rocky soil, pulling out football size rocks to get deeper. "A good day for a funeral", muttered my Father as he supervised the operation. We dug deep and were getting close to finishing our task when my Father quietly left to pepare her body. I told my son to wait, for fear that they'd done something awful to get her in that small box. Yet, there she was, curled up, eyes closed - like she was asleep after a long day on the river. I wished she'd wake up and the tears flowed from my eyes. I wrapped her in the blanket she used to sleep on when we camped and carried her to the hole were my son stood silently, his tears clearing their way through the dirt and sweat on his face. He pulled back the blanket and tucked a piece of paper between her paws and slowly pulled the blanket closed. We covered her, placing the stones and dirt, then topping it off with brittle deadfall and pine needles. One big stone to mark the grave for future generations. My father and I passed the half pint, toasting our beloved friend. A taste for the youngster too, as family tradition dictated in situations like these. Three generations stood and wept. With all of life's pains, closer than we had been in a long time, thanks to Bailey.
My Dad's knees won't let him walk the river anymore, so my son and I took advantage of the warm weather and good flows to get the sorrow off our minds. An 8th grader that wrestles 85lb class, I can still put him on my back and carry him across the river, zig-zagging to get the best angles on holes and keep his feet dry. He's surprised me with his ability to cast the 7ft 4wt I bought a couple years ago. "Just a little farther out son....good!", "There's a few hiding under that deadfall...easy...set the hook...that's the way!", "What the hell happened here? Get some tippet out and we'll re-tie", "Let it go under and when the line starts to drag, strip it back slowly...watch it...nice job!". The truck horn honked in the distance and we headed back. Three nice trout for Grandpa.
My son cleaned the fish with his Grandfather's pocket knife while I loaded the truck for the drive home. All packed and ready to go, we walked to her grave to say goodbye. We said farewell silently, and as we walked away, my son said, "One more thing!", and dashed through the pines to the truck. I watched through the trees as he bent over and placed a small apple on her grave.
I found her when she was two years old. A big lab. Her fur was burnt red, a perfect combination of the typical yellow and chocolate. She had dark brown skin around her eyes, making them look painted, like some dolled-up cutie. She was protective, but not aggressive. A good dog for the two older kids and she waited patiently at home when our youngest son was born. As a toddler, he would crawl on her and fall asleep, nestled in her belly.
She was raised to hunt birds, something I didn't do, but she liked stalking fish. She wade close to my left side and sit patiently with the water breaking across her chest. I didn't have to train her to do that. If the water was too deep, she'd sit on the bank, never moving ahead of me. I didn't have to call her back or yell for her when people came around, I'd just quietly say her name. She'd watch them, but never move.
Towards the end of my marriage I'd sit outside late into the night, smoking my last cigarrette and sipping the scotch I'd hidden in the shed - everyone asleep. Bailey would sit with me and we'd try to figure it all out as the stars circled above us, her sighs echoing mine. Finally, I found myself on my own. Court orders, visitation schedules, child support, going back to school; life got busy - too busy to fish. Bailey stayed with the kids. When I'd drop them off after a visit, she'd come to the fence and whine - breaking my heart. Sometimes I'd take a day off work to go fishing and stop by the ex's house and take her with me when everyone was at school or work. It was worth the ass-chewing I'd get for taking "her" dog fishing.
I eventually won joint custody of the children and full custody of my dog. Bailey and I fished the Logan, Ogden, Weber, Uintas, Greys, and many, many more. We camped and kept each other company. She preferred Budweiser over the microbrews and won the heart of a dark haired beauty named Brandy that became my fiance and fishing buddy to boot. They shared taste in beer, and apparently men; sitting together on the bank and watching me with the same amused look while I fished, as if to say, "You're a forgetful bastard, an occasional asshole, and possibly dangerous if left to your own devices, but we love you anyway. Be glad we're here to watch over you.". I got a little jealous of the love between them. We moved into a new house and Bailey seemed to feel the happiness. Her favorite became the apples in our new yard. She'd pluck them from the tree, standing on her hind legs, then hide them in the grass or by the creek till nightfall and try to sneak them inside when I called her in.
She started to get gray about a year ago. Longer trips didn't suit her anymore, she'd come home and sleep through the days. It was sudden. She just stopped eating. By the next day I was carrying her up and down the stairs. A trip to the Animal ER late that night didn't result in any hope. A visit to her regular Vet the next day just confirmed our fears. A large mass - exploratory surgery - sonogram - antibiotics - slim chance. It didn't make sense to put her through that, and the Vet agreed. Brandy and our youngest son petted her as she went to sleep for the last time. She was 14.
I took the next day off, packed the rods and lunch, picked up my oldest son, then my father. We stopped by the Vet. I went in alone. He brought her from the cooler in a box. She was 70 healthy pounds when I'd lifted her by her harness to help her across the Greys this summer - now I was carrying no more than 50.
We drove most of the two hours in silence. Off the highway, onto the state road, then dirt, gaining altitude and marveling at the cloudless azure sky and the yellow of the aspens crowded between the dark green pines. A short drive off the main road, locked in four, onto a two tracker that (thank god) is less driven now than when we first found it. We stopped on a high point overlooking the river, covered by old pines and young aspen - our spot.
My son and I smacked shovels into the rocky soil, pulling out football size rocks to get deeper. "A good day for a funeral", muttered my Father as he supervised the operation. We dug deep and were getting close to finishing our task when my Father quietly left to pepare her body. I told my son to wait, for fear that they'd done something awful to get her in that small box. Yet, there she was, curled up, eyes closed - like she was asleep after a long day on the river. I wished she'd wake up and the tears flowed from my eyes. I wrapped her in the blanket she used to sleep on when we camped and carried her to the hole were my son stood silently, his tears clearing their way through the dirt and sweat on his face. He pulled back the blanket and tucked a piece of paper between her paws and slowly pulled the blanket closed. We covered her, placing the stones and dirt, then topping it off with brittle deadfall and pine needles. One big stone to mark the grave for future generations. My father and I passed the half pint, toasting our beloved friend. A taste for the youngster too, as family tradition dictated in situations like these. Three generations stood and wept. With all of life's pains, closer than we had been in a long time, thanks to Bailey.
My Dad's knees won't let him walk the river anymore, so my son and I took advantage of the warm weather and good flows to get the sorrow off our minds. An 8th grader that wrestles 85lb class, I can still put him on my back and carry him across the river, zig-zagging to get the best angles on holes and keep his feet dry. He's surprised me with his ability to cast the 7ft 4wt I bought a couple years ago. "Just a little farther out son....good!", "There's a few hiding under that deadfall...easy...set the hook...that's the way!", "What the hell happened here? Get some tippet out and we'll re-tie", "Let it go under and when the line starts to drag, strip it back slowly...watch it...nice job!". The truck horn honked in the distance and we headed back. Three nice trout for Grandpa.
My son cleaned the fish with his Grandfather's pocket knife while I loaded the truck for the drive home. All packed and ready to go, we walked to her grave to say goodbye. We said farewell silently, and as we walked away, my son said, "One more thing!", and dashed through the pines to the truck. I watched through the trees as he bent over and placed a small apple on her grave.