A Decade of Love

The two-hour drive behind me, sitting/fidgeting, impatiently, at the airport, waiting for him. Ever since we met at the whelping pen, he is all I can think about. As I stood off to the side of the other puppies, a litter of eleven, he walked over to me, and I knew he was mine. Now, finally, after six long weeks, we are together.

We jump into the silver Volvo, each in our own front seat. He seems more poised and confident than I remember. Amazing how much can change in so short a period of time.

Home feels like home now that we are together. The grill is fired up in the backyard and the smell of salmon is wafting through the air. Newfoundlands are creatures of the sea and salmon the food of the ancestors. Seems there is something innate, buried in the DNA, that makes each of us love salmon so much. Economics makes having it daily improbable, but it is my favourite “sometimes food”.

She, Jan, wouldn’t be happy if we all slept in the same bed, so we separate for sleeping, but otherwise, we are best mates. She is a skinny, wee thing and now that there are two of us, we can make sure she is always safe. This neighborhood is more rowdy than dangerous. But rowdy can always take a nasty turn. We will make sure she comes to no harm.

He seems to really like football (soccer for my American friends). We play with the black and white checkerboarded sphere, endlessly. She joins in as well. She is not as skilled but is equally enthusiastic. I love her for that, and I love my new best friend.

The car is packed, and we are on our way. We are headed to Chappaquiddick where awaits a three-bedroom cottage that allows dogs, even big dogs. For a week, we romp on the beach, usually the two of us walking side by side sans leash which allows us each to run in the waves. Occasionally, some conservation officer tells us the lead must go back on the collar, but after she exits the scene, off it comes again. My best memory of that trip was splashing through a marsh with him, gathering bay scallops. We frolicked for hours until we were both soaked. Back at the house, water bowl on the floor, scotch in a glass, we each had a drink. Jan cleaned the mollusks and trimmed the muscle. All three of us feasted.

Each day, the three of us walk to the beach. He continually demands my attention and seems to have endless energy. Finally, he lays down on the towels, and I can take a load off my feet, as well. Jan wants to join us, but, legs extended against her back, we give her the toss. Seems a fair repayment for banishing a Newfoundland from the bedroom. It is him and me, snuggled together.

He dislikes cats, or at least I think he does. So, now cats annoy me. If either of us spot one, it is immediately chased and treed. A big, lumbering oaf of a bear-dog, could never catch a cat, but certainly can put a scare into one. Such fun!

Our little family needed more room, especially on the weekends when the kids show up. The duplex was fine for the first six months, but we are finally moving to a real house with a real yard. There are three acres and a thousand more abutting. It is a rural paradise of woods and fields and streams. Our home has a swimming pool which will be great for the kids. We have laid out a big football pitch and everyone gets in on the action. Daily, we hike to the creek, which is wider and deeper than many rivers. There are always logs and branches along the bank. Sticks would never suffice. The retriever instinct needs something worth fetching. Logs are thrown in the water, collected, and returned to shore. This is a game we can play for hours, until finally, tired, or bored, the walk continues. He sets the pace and the course, but often, I lead the way. We share alpha dog duties. All other hiking participants are mere pack members. Their company is enjoyed, but not necessary. The two of us together is sufficient.

On one of our walks, we happen upon a troupe of boys. They had managed to get their hands on a thick Manila hemp rope of sufficient length to tie to the creek’s overhanging tree branch and reach the water. The rope has been strategically placed next to the smallest of beaches. It is nothing like the beaches in Martha’s Vineyard. As we watch, each of the boys takes turns swinging out across the water and then swinging back, dropping on to the beach. Almost immediately, the ancient sea rescue instincts kick in. Each swing across the water by a boy is followed, closely, until he is safely back on the tiny strand of mud. No drowning deaths on this stream today!

One day I took a bad tumble down a hillside in those woods. My feet got tangled up and I did a somersault, hurling head over heels until I came to rest. My back felt bruised, but otherwise, I was no worse for wear. He ran over to me, comforted me, and we slowly walked home. Jan helped me into the car, and he stayed by my side as we drove to the doctor’s. I never fully recovered from that fall, but watching him, I was learning stoicism. Bad back or naught, we both went on each day, much as we always had, gleeful in each other’s company.

The kids grew up and their visits became less and less frequent. I missed them, but fortunately, I had him, and I had Jan. We moved one more time. It was a long car ride, eleven hours away. Atlanta is hot and humid. The two coats so perfect for Canadian winters, were unbearable in Georgia’s summers. Grooming became shaving. The look was something akin to a black Labrador, we had seen at a dog park, but on steroids. As I aged, my back injury made it harder and harder for me to get around. I spent most of my time in the family room, sometimes just staring across at Jan while she tended to chores or watched TV. One of my favorites of the children, Sean, was taking a year off from university and living with us. He was fine to have around as were many of his friends, but I do not like Hans. He reminds me of the omnipresent landscape workers and their off-putting noisy equipment. There is something not quite right with that young man. Maybe it’s the weed. Or, perhaps, I have entered my curmudgeon years.

One of my last and most vivid memories was of Jan. Not quite sure where he was hiding himself, but at that moment he was nowhere to be found. It was hard for me to walk from room to room, my back injury had made my hips almost inoperable. She and I spent most of our time in the back of the house overlooking the patio and arbor. The front doorbell rang. Jan went to answer it. No one ever comes to the front door. She opened the large wooden door which led to a small, enclosed entry with a set of glass French doors to the outside. Those she left shut. She talked to the visitor through them. I heard from the tone of her voice that he was a stranger. She was being polite but increasingly impatient. The visitor was unrelenting. Something didn’t smell right. A vagrant, he insisted polishing the brass doorknobs and be recompensed. I struggled to lift my aging 165-pound body off the rug and lamely trotted to the vestibule. The entry was all of 3 feet by 4. I managed to squeeze my body between her and the front door. My massive presence reinforced by a growl, followed by a warning bark, was sufficient to convince the interloper that begging at a different house would be wise. It was my first and last visit to the vestibule.

Epilogue (Jan picks up the narration)

It was not too long after that act of Hatley’s heroism, my husband and I took our Newf to the vet for the last time. He had been the best and most noble creature to ever enter our lives. He had been brave and uncomplaining to the end. Loving us was all he ever wanted. For over ten years, he brought us so much happiness. Hatley and my husband were thick as thieves, but his raison d’etre was my protection. From day one, he seemed to understand, it was his job to keep me from harm. As he lay on the vet’s table, his life slowly slipping away, stolen by the IV drip attached to his too long front leg, my husband and I were both sobbing. He had been my first dog. I never knew it could hurt so much to lose so loyal and loving a family member. For years after, Hatley would visit us in our dreams. Eventually, his visits became less and less frequent. I imagine he found himself a pack, and they spend their warm summer days in Gander’s cold waters fishing for salmon.