Theo
David Antrobus Posted on Monday, September 10, 2012 at 10:29PM 
There have been far too many endings lately.
That trail up by the dams—a steep, winding kilometre uphill to the rocky vantage point overlooking Hayward Lake and all the way south beyond the wide Fraser River into rural America. That trail was one he particularly loved. Not for the views, since dog eyes are not made for grand vistas, but for the climb, the steady pace through the silent forest, over wet mulch and slick roots, beside fallen logs, waxy green salal, fragile trillium, ears and muzzle alert for black bear or cougar. How many times did we walk that route together? All those times.
Rain, sleet, heat, those dull-echo grey days of no weather, of no weather at all. The turned ankle times. The pissing on everything that smells of other dog times. The stone in the shoe times. The wariness of fresh, steaming bear scat times. The bug-cloud sweat-feast times. The hot, dusty berry times. The bright, shining times.
But that one time. That one time I thought I'd lost him. Turned out it wouldn't be the last, for this infuriating Houdini of dogs. And now… well, I have lost him in the end, after all. As we always do. But that one day… Here I must admit to a wilderness faux pas, a backcountry indiscretion: I would let him slip his leash. I know, I know. Admonish me, all you Sierra Club acolytes. Scold me for my sinful self-centredness. I offer nothing by way of excuse. Except that his uninhibited joy was infectious, rendered me irresponsible. 
We began on the easy, flat stretch between the parking lot and the true trailhead, parallel to the road. Reaching that trailhead, beginning to climb, lost in thought, it took me a little too long to realize he was gone. I called his name. Quietly at first. Theo. A good name. A god name. The silence of the forest was an implacable judge of my negligence. I called him again. He wasn't there, I knew it. Alarmed now, I left the trail, bushwhacked for a while, but I knew he was not in this part of the woods, could sense his unpresence. I couldn't continue to climb, there was almost no chance he was ahead of me. Or, wait? Had I missed him as he passed me? Stealth was not foreign to this dog. It was possible. Indecision; we welcome it, sometimes, when we wish to abdicate. And there comes a time when we all wish to abdicate. Eventually, I called it—go back, he's behind you—so I retraced my steps; perhaps, limping behind me on the trail, he was hurt. I made it to the road, searched anxiously for blood or fur on this grey tarmac curve of a route that saw more than its share of gravel trucks and logging trucks. Nothing. I crossed and reentered the forest, heading back toward the place where I'd left the car, in a patch of sunlight, in a silent parking lot. Starting to rehearse what I was going to tell my young child about how I'd lost our dog in the woods, my shamed heart dull as a cracked bell in my numb chest, the stirrings of grief chasing mere worry away.
And then I heard it. A keening that sounded like the earth's last coyote, an abandoned, wild sound. A banshee wail. Lost. But ahead of me. I walked faster, breaking into a partial jog, hiking boots a carthorse hindrance, my backpack bobbing ungainly in my wake like an outgrowth of guilt. And I burst from the forest into the parking lot and he was there, was always there, of course he was there, you don't lose dogs in the forest, sitting beside my car and howling like a tiny rusted wolf, first seeing me and hesitantly approaching, head cocked, then ecstatically greeting my equally euphoric hands as I petted him all over his writhing body, a dance of unbridled love, two pack members reunited.
There were other moments. Always, we remember the extremes. The losing fight with a raccoon, halfway up the fence. An outraged shriek and eight stitches. Successfully seeing off a black bear, its dark hindquarters scrambling for purchase on a swaying fence. More magical escapes from the yard. A night in jail. Almost hidden, a tawny back forging trenches in one December's abundance of snow. Another losing argument with a bad tempered dog. A scar on his scalp. Walks, always walks. "Wow, he looks just like a fox!" Steadfast companion of an only child. Beloved, sweet, self-contained. Cool, in fact. Not a canine word, perhaps, but apt here.
Listen: they come into your world trusting you, curled small enough for a palm, dark almond eyes blameless and mostly devoid of all that makes being human so utterly painful, and then they leave your world with that same heartbreaking trust in those same eyes, now bedimmed yet still encompassing you. In his case, held fast on a sterile table, a hypodermic pushed into a vein in his right foreleg, an overdose of anesthetic, his bereft, inconsolable pack close by, holding him, offering their warmth and their smell, those quiet, tolerant eyes watching, watching, three or four almost-panic-breaths, two, three, four, five, then stillness forever, that once-proud and silly head brought low, now cannonball-weighty on muscles slackened to damp string by life's hasty retreat. And his small body, somehow smaller now than it ever was in life, cooling so fast it makes my own breath catch and hitch, not knowing whether to exhale or inhale, caught on the cusp of all grieving breaths ever taken in this world, ever to be taken.
He's on that trail now, somewhere in my memory or in the impossible world, my little golden friend, and he's trying to get back to that ticking car on that quiet patch of black asphalt. Maybe an owl swoops over him, or he hears the harsh cries of ravens far above in the tops of cedars, or a snake glides by in the green untidy detritus of the rainforest beside the trail and he thinks briefly of investigating. But his ears twitch and he is avid with the rawness of it all, is smelling the youth and the age of the world at once, absorbing the joyous tragedy of everything that ever mattered, as he runs, knowing he will soon see me come striding down that leafy, rocky path, my face a picture of consternation, and he will cock his head then bound like a small deer and finally stop his infernal howling when he knows for sure that love's come back, however briefly, to visit awhile once more.
David Antrobus, Theo, goodbye, grief
Reader Comments (23)
How can I say anything, how can I offer anything but hugs and love?
You made me cry, jerk. That was lovely.
Sometimes, all we have in front of us is the option to either opt out of life or to cry. This is one of those times, I think.
Beautiful. And it's too raw right now, I'm sure, but once you feel the calm you'll realize that you can look up into the heavens and know that now he is ALWAYS with you.
Thanks, Kat. And especially having honoured his life here, in words, he literally won't be forgotten.
A beautiful tribute, David, to a friend who will always be missed. I am crying, too, both for you and for myself. At 14 my father told me I could pick a puppy out of the litter of show German Shepherds and it would be mine as long as I trained it. By six weeks Big Boy was paper trained, by seven, house trained. The first time i took him out on a leash, at seven weeks, he literally dragged his little behind all the way until I turned to come back home, then he walked beside me already. He never dragged his arse again. I trained him with bits of wieners and lots of praise. By 12 weeks he could compete in obedience shows with the adult dogs. He came in third. We were inseparable. This was a particularly tough time in my life and he was, literally, my only friend. Every evening after dinner he would nudge his leash to tell me it was time to go. We would walk down the road, just to get away, and I remember one cold, rainy November day, sitting with my legs dangling over a culvert - just sitting, my arm draped over his huge shoulder, finding solace in that.
He had been taught both verbal and hand commands and knew the boundaries of our property, which he never crossed. But we lived on a highway. One day a stray cat trespassed and Big Boy decided he would get rid of the interloper. He chased him toward the highway just a a huge transport truck came barreling toward our driveway. I yelled "big Boy, down". I gave the hand signal. He kept running. Then, as the cat got smushed by the truck, Big Boy stopped at the precise edge of the driveway, sat down and watched. It was a terrifying moment.
But when Big Boy was nine months, weighing 90 pounds by then, my father decided he was not show quality because he had a twisted tail and casually gave him away. I am crying again as I write this. I still miss my best friend. I have never had a dog again. He was irreplaceable.
I'm sorry if this adds to your pain. I guess Big Boy's story just had to be told.
Dear David, I'd be embarrassed to tell you how many times I've read this, but I'm not at all embarrassed to tell you that each time I've read it, I have been moved to tears by the beauty and honesty with which you share your grief and love. Jo
Yvonne, far from adding to it, a shared pain is a halved pain in many ways. Thank you for taking the trouble to recall your own grief here. Often, the bond is as real as any bond with a person.
And thanks again, Jo. As usual, your appreciation of my words helps with the formation of future word patterns ;)
OMG! That is a beautiful post for a most difficult time.
Sunni
Sunni, sincere thanks—not only for visiting, but for going that extra half-mile and commenting.
Both beautiful and painful to read...a reminder of the dogs I've loved and lost. Memories that we will always cherish, looking back with both a smile and a tear.
This is beautiful, David, and so lovely and touching and, oh, I'm crying, too...
I want to thank you, David. Thank you for taking all the gut-wrenching feelings we have when we lose a pet and turning them into something beautiful. Thank you for bringing back memories and for the tears I needed to shed for my own losses, but could not - as parents must be the strong ones when something like this happens. Thank you for caring about animals and being the type of guy who doesn't give a flying frog's arse if everyone knows it. Thank you for not only thinking of yourself when you wrote this, but for all of us. I am so sorry, my friend.
Two reasons I'm now glad I blogged this:
The genuine catharsis I got from writing this out, and although I wasn't sure about the public/private balance, I'm now glad I shared, as it touched others who have experienced similar emotions and loss.
The second reason: all of y'all's awesome, touching comments. Seriously, I could get all maudlin all over again, but you guys manage to convince me that that's maybe okay. The latest examples: Mandy, Laurie and Nickie! I mean it: thank you all. And if he could speak, from wherever he lives (in our hearts, our memories, some place else?), being a people-person probably more than I am, Theo would no doubt agree. ;)
Thank you for sharing. This was beautiful and made me think on the connection I have with my own dogs and the dogs I had growing up. They are more than just a pet, they are family and a part of who we are. My best.
Thank you for the comment, Stephanie. They are absolutely family. Species barriers matter so little in the end, especially where love is concerned.
What a beautifully told story, a tribute, a gift. And yes, I cried.
Jane, yes. Thank you so much for reading and for commenting.
It always hurts to lose a friend. Lovely writing. Nicely done, man.
Lovely post. I can picture him on this walk now.
Reminds me of when I lost my cats. Gutted every time, from when I was a kid until a grown-up. I wish my cat, Moggie, could live forever! I remember my first pet of my own. A little fish that I called Pip, after the pet in Little Women (I think it was a bird). That little fishie hit me hard. Same with my gerbil that I had as a teenager and into University. He lived for 5 years, which I think is very long for a gerbil. He was so cute. Our little furry and feathered friends will never be forgotten.