Snow Day with Bark

In late February 2005, my beloved Bark took her final sleep. This month of the year is still, and probably always will be, a month of grief for me, even after all these years. That’s how good a dog she was.

There’s a line in the old song Mr. Bojangles that goes:

“His dog up and died
He up and died
After twenty years he still grieves”

Well, that line always got to me, and at 21 years now, I guess I’ve got ol’ Mr. Bojangles beat.

Bark, 2005

After several months of deteriorating health, her last two weeks had seen her in a quick downward slide, and I did what I had to do. But this isn’t a story about that.

Back in the summer of ‘91, my then-wife and I chose Bark before we even saw her. We went to the animal shelter in Columbia, SC, ready to adopt the ugliest dog on its last day. That turned out to be Bark. We ended up making a fantastic choice. From that day, Bark was my constant companion, traveling from South Carolina to Alaska, California to Kansas City, and back to California. She has witnessed the arrival of our two wonderful sons and has been there for the incredible and sad moments in our lives. I hoped she would stay with me longer, but that wasn’t to be.

She and I have trekked many miles together across Alaska’s most stunning landscapes. Additionally, she has helped me make friends with strangers at the many street-side cafes in the cities where we have lived or visited.

I have countless stories about Bark, but my absolute favorite is about a hike she and I took in Alaska.

Just outside Anchorage lies a small recreation area known as Arctic Valley. In the fall of ‘93, shortly after the first significant snowfall, we set out from the parking area and hiked along the mountain’s ridge line. The leeward side of the hill was almost devoid of snow, while the windward side had thick drifts of white piled high. After a long and challenging climb to the top of the hill, Bark and I took a moment to admire the view. Actually, I admired the view while Bark tried to catch marmots. As the sun began to set, its rays turned pink and orange, casting a warm glow over the snowy peaks of the surrounding mountains and making the snow seem on fire.

Much like ground squirrels, marmots keep sentries on watch while the other marmots forage, play, or do whatever marmots do. Their shrill alarm cry resembles that of a bosun’s whistle. While I sat, Bark worked on her marmot mission. As soon as she spotted one, she would take off after it. Being significantly smarter than Bark, the marmots would let themselves be chased only when they chose to. One would set itself up to be chased by whistling its sharp cry while the others fled to safety. As soon as Bark got within twenty feet, the marmot would slip into its burrow, completely safe. Bark would peer down the hole, likely thinking she had come oh-so-close to catching this one. Within minutes, she would scan the horizon, searching for the next target. She would bound after the next one she saw, regardless of how far away it was. Naturally, the next one would escape as well. Bark had such boundless energy that this would go on until I grew tired of watching her. After my break, we continued.

The area we were in was part of a ski resort as well. Along the ridge we were on were the tops of the ski lifts, each with a small cabin. Since it was late, returning the way we came would mean arriving back at the car well after dark, so I was searching for an alternate route. The solution came from one of the small cabins in the form of a snow shovel. From where we were, it was about a 1,500-ft descent to the lower trail, which had several feet of snow on the hillside. I rode every inch of it on the pan of the shovel, with the handle sticking out in front of me. What about Bark?

This was perhaps Bark’s most remarkable feat and certainly my favorite vision of her. As I descended the hill, Bark attempted to run alongside me. The snow made that impossible. Instead, she bounded downhill in great strides. With each leap, she had to jump up and out of the hole she was in, clear several feet of snow, and land in the next patch of powder, creating another hole she would have to escape. All the while, she was trying to keep up with me, driven by her instinct and excitement, and maybe a little fear of being left behind.

Imagine the sight! As I raced down on the shovel, I glanced back and saw this shaggy black beast bounding again and again. Her ears flew up as she reached the peak of her leap, and they flopped down again upon hitting the ground. Her eyes were fixed ahead, and her black whip of a tail was straight behind her like a rudder.

That is how I still remember Bark. That memory, that vision, is etched in my brain.

Best dog ever!

Where she was the best dog ever, I can’t say I was the best owner that I could have been. I see times when I spent too much time away or didn’t give her the time and attention she needed. I could say that I was busy with my own life, raising kids, going through life, divorce, relationships, and moves, but I know that I could have given her more, and that knowledge pains me to this day. Another thing I know is that every dog in my life since her has been the recipient of the lessons I learned from her. Zoe, Enzo, Monte, Oliver, Buddy the Chug, Halley, and Zoe have all benefited from Bark and her unending love and loyalty towards me. I’ve tried to return it to all the dogs, and even a few of the cats, whose paths I’ve crossed.