Dear Juneau

Dear Juneau,

The memory of my first time meeting you is more vivid now, than ever before. It was the perfect bluebird day. In retrospect, not nearly as perfect as you. We started our hike up Ramona Falls towards Yocum Ridge on what was clearly a quintessential summer day in the PNW. Beargrass was in full bloom, while patches of snow still kissed the earth beneath our feet.

"Nobody will be up here," I thought. Not a soul. We rounded a turn just before the final ascent onto the ridge. In his usual style, Jack sprinted up ahead in hopes of discovering the views before we did. That's when I heard you. You let out a gutteral bark as to warn the yellow dog to back off, this was your spot. A sense of disappointment washed over me as I now understood there were others here. We crested the ridge, and there you were. Planted so proudly in front of your human while claiming your territory as the yellow dog sprinted circles around you. You kept a steady eye on Jack, and then shifted your gaze as we approached. Never could I have been so happy that you were the soul up on the mountain that day. Never would I have imagined it was that day that would connect me to the next several years of your incredible life. Never would I have imagined the lessons myself, and even Jack had to learn from you. Never would I have imagined falling deeply in love with your human, and witnessing the ways in which you are, and always will be, an extension of his spirit. Never would I have imagined the ways in which you reconnected me with my own spirit. My own sense of self.

 

I was always of the understanding that dogs had a magical sense about them that allowed our hearts to open without even trying. You were never just a dog though. You held an understanding of the natural world in a way that led me to believe you had lived many lives before the one I was able to share with you. Your presence grounded me, and my smothering love drove you bonkers.  Some nights you were the little spoon, other nights you were the big. As tough and prideful as you are, I always acknowledged the big soft teddy that existed deep down within the depths of your almighty. As reluctant as you were, you always let me into the soft snuggly bear that loved cuddles, and kisses on the cheeks. Just like your dad, you cherish the quiet times when no one is looking.

Life was most fully felt when I watched you on the river. The river is where our family grew its roots, and so many rivers that have held our memories. Carrying them out to sea where they'll forever rest in boundless waters. As I reflect on our time spent together, and love that runs so deep, I realize how fortunate I am to have had time with you. To have known you. I feel that many people spend a healthy part of their lives searching for the wisdom you shared. The wisdom that needs no words, and simply is. The wisdom I had been searching for before that day on the mountain.

Days turned to months, months turned to years, and I never would have imagined our time coming to an end. I was under the selfish impression that your life would exceed my own timeline. That I would wake up as an old woman with an old husband, and our old dog. Reflecting over coffee and hard boiled eggs on the full life we shared together to the very end. The times where you ate full pumpkin pies, and loaves of bread. The times where you stole breakfast off of plates when no one was looking. The times where I wanted to throw you off a cliff for fighting with your brother Jack. The times where you were guiding me to the fish in the river. The times you rested your head in my lap, and looked up at me with those big almond brown eyes. The times your dad and I held you close between us over countless nights spent in the back of Amiga. The times where you called me out on my bullshit. The times where you really rather I don't grab your snout and go in for the kiss, but let me anyway. The impression you left on anybody who met you, or shared adventures with you.

The day we learned you were in heart failure I remember feeling everything, and then nothing. I've never experienced feeling nothing. I've never had to understand how to work through what it means to have life sucked out of living. Your dad and I very quickly became shells of ourselves. We learned there was nothing we could do aside from medicate to manage the symptoms. We learned doggy heart transplants don't exist. I would have given you mine. We made a pact that we would give the medications a try, and as soon as your quality of life took a turn for the worse, we would help you transition out of it. We promised to never let you suffer, and we kept that promise to the very end. We didn't count the days we had left with you. We filled each day with the things we knew you love. More walks, more treats, more fishing, more time spent chilling outside in the mountains, more time with us. You responded to treatment so well. We became less sad as we witnessed you have some of these best days. We were so full of gratitude for the passionate individuals who cared for you as loved ones, and as professionals. Those same people are still very much taking care of us.

Our final weekend with you was one for the books. We didn't know it would be our last one. We took you to the forest, and let you spend time around friends and a warm campfire. We took you fishing, and it was this particular day that you were most alive. Scaling muddy hillsides, getting into salmon carcasses, prancing between your dad and I as we chased the elusive steelhead. You were in your element. You were free. I'll never forget how content we were that weekend.  As much as we weren't under the impression this would be our last adventure with you, you knew. You took advantage of every single moment you were gallivanting in those woods along a river.

Our final family photo taken in the very place where we'll commit to love forever and always. 

Monday night was when you communicated what we had been in waking fear of. Tuesday morning we made our calls to the professionals who cared so closely for you. They gave us options. So many options. We loaded you into red rocket because we knew she was your favorite to ride in. You see, we also weren't aware that we would be faced with the inevitable decision we made that morning. You made it easy though. Your eyes were delicately powerful in the message they conveyed. You lay so peaceful, and it was time for us to make your transition.

I can still feel your fur as I imagine running my fingers through it. I still feel the warmth of your breath on my shoulder where your head used to rest as I drive down the road. I still see your delighted face, and wriggly body each time I walk through the front door. I can't turn the vacuum on without thinking about trying my best not to disturb you. I can still feel the beat of your heart, and the exact moment that it stopped. I can't help but to notice Jack's shifting behavior. Your dad can't look at photos of you right now, where I find tremendous comfort in them. There is so much more room on the sidewalk for our daily walks. The hole you left is gaping, and the deep, deep sadness is real. In fact, more real than most things right now. I wouldn't change any of it for the world. I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat. We would do it all over again in a heartbeat. You filled our lives in ways we can never explain. In ways that have helped shape the individuals we have grown to be. I will never say goodbye to you buggy. I will only say I love you. I love you so very, very much.

Sweet dreams my love.
Yocum Ridge, July 8th 2013