Bark, a love story
I have loved many times; family, a wife, lovers, all valuable but few as memorable and impactful as Bark.
Still, after these many years, I can’t part with Bark’s leash.
I have loved many times; family, a wife, lovers, all valuable but I wish to tell you of a soul so complex and simple that great tomes could be written about her value and importance but I’ll do my best to narrow down this tale to a few grand images. Allow me to tell you about Bark, a dog.
So legend is she that after all these years, Bark was mentioned fondly at a recent family gathering by my former mother-in-law. The comment was casual and off-hand but was enough to indicate that Bark still runs through our family’s collective memory.
Back in the Summer of ’91, my then-wife and I made the decision to choose Bark before we even saw her. We went into the animal shelter in Columbia, SC prepared to choose the ugliest dog on its last day. That turned out to be a shabby, scrawny, asymmetrically-headed pup with cutest GD face you’ve ever seen. Her gratitude for attention was so immense that there was no way we could have left her there.
Since then, Bark was my constant companion from South Carolina to Alaska to California to Kansas City and back to California. She had seen the arrival of our two wonderful sons and had been witness to the wonderful and the sad moments in our lives. Along the way, she and I hiked countless miles in some of the most beautiful places in Alaska and she has helped me make friends of strangers at the many street-side cafes in the cities in which we have lived. I have countless stories of Bark but my absolute favorite is of a hike that she and I took while in Alaska.
Just north of Anchorage, to the east of Ft. Richardson, is a small recreation area called Arctic Valley. In the fall of ’93, just after the first significant snow, we set out from the parking area and hiked up along the ridgeline of the mountain. The leeward side of the hill was almost bare of snow but the windward side had thick drifts of white packed onto it. After a long and hard climb up the ridge to the top of the hill, Bark and I sat for a bit and admired the scene. Actually, I admired the scene and Bark tried to catch marmots. Because the sun was setting, the rays were pink and orange and, as they fell onto the snowy peaks of the other mountains, they made it seem as if the snow were actually on fire. The Alpenglow.
Marmots, like ground squirrels, keep sentries on keep overwatch while the other marmots forage, play or do whatever marmots do. Their shrill cry of alarm is much like that of a bosun’s whistle. While I was sitting, Bark was trying to catch marmots. I would never allow an animal to be harmed in such a manner but I was certain that Bark would never catch one and should she accidentally corner one, she lacked the instinct to do anything other than sniff it until it escaped.
As soon as she would see one, she would chase off after it. She was black and shaggy, all of 32 pounds but when she unleashed her version of canine fury, the target of that cute rage would only ever be caught if they stood in place and went “Aaawww…” for too long. Needless to say, she was not intimidating.
Marmots being ten times smarter than Bark, would allow themselves to be chased only when they wanted to be. One would set himself up as a target by whistling its shrill cry while the other fled to safety. As soon as Bark came within 20 yds, the marmot would slip into its burrow, completely safe. Bark would look down the hole, certainly thinking that she came oh-so-close to getting this one. Within moments, she would scan the horizon looking and listening for the next victim. She would bound after the next one she saw, no matter how far away it was. Of course, the next one would escape also. Bark had such boundless energy that this would continue until I got tired of watching her.
After my rest, we continued.
The area that we were in was also part of a ski resort, Along the ridge that we were on were the tops of the ski lifts and each lift had a small cabin at its top. Because it was late and going back the way we came would mean arriving back at the car way after dark, I was looking for an alternate route down. The solution was found inside one of the small cabins in the form of a snow shovel.
From where we were, it was about a 1500 ft descent to the lower trail with several feet of snow on the hillside. I rode every foot of it on the pan of the shovel with the handle sticking out in front of me. Yes, it was super cool and fun on my part, an epic ride but what of Bark?
This was possibly Bark’s greatest feat and certainly my favorite vision of her. As I made my way down the hill, Bark tried to run alongside me but the snow made that impossible. Instead, she would bound downhill in great strides. With each leap, she would have to jump up and out of the hole that she was in, clear the next several feet of snow and land in the next bit of powder, creating another hole that she would have to jump out of. All the while she was trying to keep up with me, following the instinct/fear she had of not wanting to be left behind while still reveling in the excitement of it all.
Imagine the sight! As I was racing down on the shovel, I would glance back and see this shaggy black beast bounding again and again. Her ears would fly up as she reached the apex of her leap and would flop down again as she hit the ground. Her eyes were fixed in front of her and her black whip of a tail was set straight behind her as a rudder.
There has never been nor will there ever be a cooler moment had by any dog in the history of canine-hood. This memory is etched slow-motion in my brain and if it stays there for the rest of my days, I shall be quite pleased.
Years later, in the late Winter of 2005, Bark and I took yet another walk, our last. We went to the marina near my home in the Bay Area and though she was reluctant to get up and go, her instinct for adventure and her desire to please me won over and we headed out. She slept on the drive there and when we arrived, she seemed less-than-pleased to get out and begin. I picked her up, carried her to the trailhead, and began the walk. I walked slowly for her but it was still too fast. She tried to keep moving but she wore a pained expression on her face and I knew what she was thinking and feeling. Having walked less than 100 meters, she just stopped cold on the trail and looked straight at me.
“I’m done, Friend.”, she said to me.
“We’ve lived together forever and we’ve walked the world and smelled the smells and barked at squirrels and rolled in dead salmon … but I’m done. My pain is too great, my energy too low, and my body has failed.”
I heard every word she said. I knew this was coming soon as she had been declining rapidly the last month of her life. She had a couple small but fatally-placed tumors, tiny polyps really, in her snout and nasal passage that had been causing havoc to her nervous system. The Vet said any one of her seizures, small or large, could be her last.
Still, though, it was too great a shock and when I heard her words, I tried my best to be cool and stoic but I failed and cried right there on the trail. I approached my dear friend and as I did so, she took one final step towards me and leaned heavily into my arms. I cradled her and picked her up and I just sobbed into the scruffy, never-kempt hair on her neck for what seemed like an eternity.
I carried her to the car, shuttled her home and made the call to the Vet. We were there within a few hours and I held her close and tight as she slipped away, forever. Bark is buried in a wild part of the Oakland Hills in a spot that catches the morning sun. This is sacred ground and I visit it every time I’m in the area.
Bark was, is, among my greatest loves.
……….
Hey!
This post was originally published on Medium. I’d appreciate it if you’d go there and follow me as I won’t be putting all of my writing on this blog.
Thanks for reading. I’d love to hear your thoughts.
The Things I Carry - A Bowling Pin
I was a soldier once, a good one, too, but before that, I was a scared kids a million miles from home.
Years ago, I was a soldier. A pretty good one, too, but this isn't a story about any exploits I might have had. This is a story about being a young person far from home and without a network.
In December of 1988, after finishing my training at Ft. McClellan and spending a few days at home for Thanksgiving, I was away on my adventure; my first permanent duty station in the US Army. Wearing my Class A uniform and still with my too-short haircut, I walked into what seemed like a screaming madhouse as my new unit had just arrived an hour before me from a field training exercise and were dragging all their filthy gear from the vehicles to the cleaning areas and on to storage. They were all loud and dirty and frankly, I was scared shitless as to what I may have gotten into.
All that madness ended soon enough and I got in-processed into the unit and was assigned to where I needed to be. Though I was the new guy and the folks that were already there seemed much older than me (they weren't) the fact is that we were all a bunch of scared kids so making friends wasn't hard. After a couple months, I got a new roommate, Joe Gilmartin. He was all of two years older than me and had been in the service for about three years at this point. Though he didn't act it, to me he seemed like the coolest, most calm dude possible. I won't pretend that he was a great soldier but he was a great roommate.
Our base was a small one and it had a recently defunct bowling alley in it. On one of Joe's nights out, he ... well, I don't know all the details but he came back home with a few bowling pins, one of which soon became among my favorite possessions. Over my time there, I had many friends sign it or make their mark upon it. Signatures were scribbled over drawings and quotes covered names. It's frankly a mess but I wouldn't have it any other way.
Since that time, I lived in South Carolina, Alaska, California (twice), Kansas City (twice), Idaho, Spokane, and now San Antonio. That stupid bowling pin has come with me every single time and has always been displayed proudly. I'm not the flag-waving type but I am glad that I served in the US Army. Those years provided me with countless memories and experiences that could never have been found elsewhere. And, I got a bowling pin out of it!
