This was in the Chronicle a couple weeks ago. I dare you not to tear up.
Remembering a friend, appreciating the now
Tom Stienstra
Sunday, May 15, 2005
The early rains of May bring out the brilliant white blooms of the dogwood trees, the arrival of spring in the mountains, a time for adventures and the memories of friends loved and lost.
Near a downed log in deep forest, far from any trail, a dogwood tree blooms every year this week. It grows over the grave site of my old dog, Rebel, who rambled and roamed with me for 17 years, and blooms each year on the day that I buried him.
In nature, that dogwood represents spring's rebirth of the land. For me, it also symbolizes the crossing over of my old dog's spirit to the other side, to live again.
Every day for 17 years, Rebel slept on my feet as I wrote, so when I finished a story and got up to go, he'd wake, ready for the next trip. Then one spring morning, while curled up beneath me, he had a devastating stroke. An hour later, I held his head in my hands and he gave me a lick on a cheek, and as I held him, he died. It felt like my heart was dying with him.
But a moment later, I sensed something rise from his body, a distinct but amorphous presence, and then hover over him for a few seconds, then drift off and vanish. Now some 10 years later, I believe what I felt was his spirit leaving his physical shell and crossing over. In his death, I felt divine force.
We all know that the price of living is dying, and so for a few years I held off on getting another dog, to avoid risking going through it again. But I also know that you should never save love for a rainy day, and that I love dogs and heading off with them, especially hiking, fishing and camping.
Ready again for a dog
Eventually, after a few years, I seemed ready, but this time, I figured, I wouldn't get a dog that would rely solely on me. So we found a black chow puppy, a breed with the reputation of being aloof and self-reliant. Plus he looked just like a little bear cub, and after seeing bears on every trip for a month, I figured maybe it was a sign. I named him Black Bart, but as a cute little puppy, it became more like "Barty."
Then, in time, a stray dog showed up at a door step, needing a family. After a week in the kennel and a search for the owner, my wife and kids rescued him, and "Pooch" became a fixture. Then we came across Buddy, a golden retriever puppy -- my boy Kris couldn't live without him -- and suddenly we had three dogs.
This made sense, I figured. With three dogs, I wouldn't get too attached to any one and then one day again be devastated. At the same time, they wouldn't bond with only me. When I would leave, they wouldn't stare at me with those big, brown eyes, saying, "What? You're not taking me? How could you?" With a family, there would be a natural buffer. When I came home after a trip, it would be routine.
Of course, I was wrong about just about every bit of this.
For the past eight years, Bart has slept at the foot of our bed nearly every night, that is, when Buddy hasn't claimed the spot first. When I hike across national forest and meadows, no dog savors the trek more than Pooch. When the boys come home from a trip and the dogs go crazy in happiness, jumping and falling all over each other, I've discovered that watching this connection, dog and boy, touches me far more than when I am greeted myself.
On trips, I get the full-on baleful eye treatment, and yeah, they make me feel guilty.
Every dog is unique
These three dogs are nothing like Rebel. Each is unique, as is every dog, just as the chemistry that develops between every dog and its master.
They are also like cartoon characters. Bart once sat for three hours looking at a small hole in the ground. He suddenly pounced on something, and then with a prance to his walk, brought me a gopher. Since when do dogs that look like little bears catch gophers?
Pooch, the once lost soul, is so grateful to be petted that I once had a contest with him while watching a ballgame. Who could last the longest? Me petting him? Or him sitting there? After 47 minutes, his eyes glazed over, still wanting more pet time -- like "What? That's all?" -- he was declared the winner.
Buddy, with champion retriever breeding, has turned into Donald Duck. His specialty is a series of deranged smiles while he puts a paw on the head of Barty. If invited to a dog party, my wife noted, he'd be the dog most likely, after an hour, to wear a lampshade on his head.
Through all these and many crazy episodes, the bond forms, a connection that runs deep between dogs and family. If you have ever owned a dog, you know exactly what I mean.
When it comes to matters of heart, there is no way to skim the surface, to dodge the feelings, to avoid the reality of love and a love that will one day be surely lost.
This once pained me. This past week, on a hike in the forest, I saw the blooming dogwood once again, felt the familiar twinge, and then looked across a meadow.
Barty was staring at an old burned-out stump, his little tail shaking at the prospects of a find. Pooch was streaking through the high spring grass, ecstatic to be free and alive. Buddy was zigzagging, charging around as if on electric pulses, his acute senses taking him first one way, then another, one moment after another.
I still feel the bittersweet poignancy wash over me when the dogwoods bloom each May. But there is a greater truth now, of divine force -- and that people and all dogs can share friendships like no other.
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.c ... CPIHQ1.DTL
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eter, aka 
usty 
