this wonderful life

 

Baja, Mexico January 2000.  I meet a scruffy little dog (one of so many "feral" dogs roaming the beaches) in a biological research camp where I am working for the winter. He is waiting on the end of the dock when I bring the boat back in one night.  He won't let me pet him. He hangs around for a couple of days.  I feed him and find him a soft blanket.   I'm a bit lonely and so is he.  We become friends and he starts following me everywhere.  He follows on long hikes up the mountain to count geese in the bays below. Each night when I return in the boat, he is always there.  I keep expecting him to disappear but he doesn't.  When it's time to head home I can't leave him behind. 

We drive from Mexico up the coastal highway to Oregon, stopping to camp and visit friends along the way.  It's just the two of us.  I name him Frijole.  We are young and on an adventure.  He steals my blueberry muffins off the dashboard when I stop for coffee. 

 

When we get home he forgets his Mexican junkyard ways and gets comfy right away.  One day we find him on the couch with some cream cheese wrappers from the garbage stuck to his lips.

 

 

 

We have many other adventures and he takes a liking to my beau, Andy. He has good taste.

 

Almost two years later Andy and I are settling into a life in Wisconsin and he accepts a "little sister", Lily.  She is big trouble, but he loves her.

 

Fall 2003, Andy and I tie the knot on the shores of Lake Superior.  Frijole doesn't miss a minute (Lily has to sit in the car because she won't stop tossing a stick around).  

 

For the next three years we have countless good times.  Digging in the yard, getting sprayed by skunks, camping, hiking, and sleeping on the bed.  In 2005 Frijole is diagnosed with a tumor on his eye and his entire eye is removed by the UW-Madison Vet Clinic.  Life is just as good as a one-eyed Mexican junkyard dog. 

 

Year 2006.  Something brewing!

  

 

 

 

For five and a half years this boy keeps close watch on his girls.  He happily endures hours of "let's lead Buddy around", much brushing, snuggling, and more leading around. 

He lights our life with tail wagging, low greeting howls that mean "I'm so happy you are home" and belly rubs by the fire.  He lays on the couch for hours.  He lays in the sun for hours.  As time goes on he slows.  He still "racecars" around from time to time and is more than happy to eat his meals, but he sleeps for hours.  Deeply.  Andy and I know the time is coming.  He is 12.  At least. We never knew for sure how old he was when we found each other in Baja.  I think we say goodbye to him in small ways (at each goodnight, at each morning pet) for about a year.  And then it's time.  On May 11th he had a stroke or seizure in the night.  The next day he is not himself, we take him to the vet and she gives him some meds, but we know.  We take him home.  He sleeps in our room as he always did.  That night he whines and we both go to him.  We lay with him for hours, until morning.  He is very still, very peaceful.  It is good and sweet.  We are all saying goodbye.  In the morning he is still with us, but we know he is ready.  We take him back to our kind and loving vet and he goes so quickly and easily in my arms outside in the morning sunshine that we knew for sure it was right. 

 

 

We bring him home and bury him in the blueberry garden where he loved to lay in the sun.  Right there outside our window.  Throughout the day, and the days to come his spot is lovingly adorned with flowers and memories.  He is so loved and so missed.

 

Free, Fro Fro, Buddy.  We will have you in our hearts forever.  Andy likes to say that you chose me that winter in Baja.  I couldn't feel luckier.  Our years together were such a blessing.  Every minute.  Every one.