Running in Dreams

From the time he was a pup, Jake loved the mountains. Sure, you’d have a tough time getting him out of a lake or a stream or even a puddle, for that matter, but on a height of land, where the wind always blows, is where he liked best to be. 

On a summit, he would lie in the sunshine as close to the edge as possible, his face directly into the breeze, chomping endlessly on a stick or just looking out at the horizon sniffing the fresh, clean air.

Jake loved the idea of mountains. For more than a decade, he would pester endlessly as soon as the backpack came down off the coat rack or hiking boots made their appearance from the closet. In the truck on the way to a climb, I’d ask him if he was a mountain dog. He would look at me out of the corner of his eye and give a howl of approval.

Each time we’d climb he would race ahead on the trail. Every now and then he would stop and turn around and stare as if to see what was holding up his human companions. There was no excuse, he was sure. There was a mountain to climb, and there was no time to waste.

His heart was strong, his senses keen, and his spirit of adventure high. Back and forth he would run, covering twice the distance in half the time.

Jake was not reckless in his eagerness. Much to the dismay of more than one hiking companion, he would not hesitate to pass on a narrow ledge, keeping to the inside, nudging people closer to the drop. Later at night, as he would doze by my chair, his legs would sometimes explode in motion as he continued to run through doggie dreams.

Four strong legs gave him an advantage on the flat but, when things were hand-over-hand, he would wait impatiently for a boost. Up he’d go with no idea of what he would find above. His trust was absolute.

People too often try to ascribe human emotions to their pets. I think the unswerving loyalty and trust of a faithful old dog is the true expression of those virtues. The human version of those qualities, I believe, are not the original, and too often, a poor imitation.

Over the years, Jake enjoyed many sections of the Appalachian Trail in Maine, numerous summits Down East, and every mountain on Mount Desert Island, most more than once.

But slowly and surely, Jake’s back legs succumbed to arthritis. It hurt him, I know, to be left behind when the backpack came down off the hook and the boots came out of the closet. He would come over and nuzzle my hands while I tried to lace my boots. I never could make him understand why I had to leave him behind.

Still, there was snow to romp in, squirrels to chase out of the birdfeeders, and plenty of cars turning around in the driveway to bark at. Life was slower, naps longer, and there was less and less running in dreams. But overall, it was good; that is, until this spring.

At first it looked like a simple lame paw, maybe a sore elbow. The reality came to be bone cancer in his shoulder. For a dog with two bad legs, a third becomes the last straw. He tried his hardest for two months, managing pretty well on three legs. But the unflappable squirrels no longer excited him. His eyes made it clear that the pain was increasing.

Finally, on Monday, with the help of close friend who is a veterinarian, Jake lay down in sunshine on the front porch, and his strong heart was stilled.

I have Jake’s ashes now. I promised him long ago that, when the time came, we’d go for one last hike. I’m going to wait for a day when the conditions are right. Alone, I’ll get the backpack down and lace up my boots. I’ll climb to the top of Jake’s favorite mountain and stand close to the edge. I’ll say my last goodbye to a faithful old dog, and I’ll let him run again in dreams on the wind.