Who Saved Who?

Choo choo choooo blared from my cell phone, and my daughter's photo flashed on the screen to disrupt the work day. The words of her quivering voice marked the exact moment in time our world turned to hell.

"Hampton’s being flown by a medivac chopper to Greenville Memorial hospital," she said.

Forty-five minutes later, I sat in an emergency room counseling lounge, and a Doctor announced horrific news to my family and me. My twenty-year-old son was dead. He was killed by a man who had struck his vehicle head-on. Seven thousand and six hundred and sixteen days of a young man's beautiful life and future were destroyed by a man in a hurry.

We had lived together atop White Oak Mountain in a modernized cabin with his best buddy Rocky the Boxer, overlooking the town of Columbus three thousand feet below. Rocky, the playful boxer and zealous family member, was never content until all household members had been counted. Now, I had to go home without my son.

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Emotionally, spiritually, and physically shattered, I arrived home past midnight to Rocky's greeting, miming a canine version of Elvis on stage. He stopped dancing when his empathetic mind sensed my frailty and took count. Someone had not come home.

His expressive face demanded, "Where's my boy? Where's Hampton?"

I dropped to the floor and broke down in tears. Rocky nuzzled his black muzzle close and whined in confusion with my sadness. I had to tell him.

"He's gone bud, he's gone," I said, "I'm sorry, so sorry."

Boxers are the most expressive dogs I know, and he moved closer with his white chest against mine. I wrapped my arms around his fawn neck, and he nestled his silken black muzzle on my shoulder in a grand hug.

Over the next few days, Rocky would alert to an engine's roar as a car approached, run to the door in anticipation of Hampton's return, and retreat to his couch, depressed when he didn't. For days after the funeral, time stood still, and we remained stuck in a routine of grief where we maintained the bare basics of life, oxygen, minimal food, and water.

On the third day, we sat on the back deck as clouds of white floated above gliding hawks who rode thermals in search of their next meal. Jane Doe, our regular deer visitor, munched grass in the yard below. Always attentive to the motion surrounding us, Rocky didn't move and remained idle at my feet. The unique tire roar of a truck rose from the road out front, and he lifted his head. His ears perked up until the sound faded up the ridge, and he dropped his head between his paws. An audible sigh and snort of air escaped his mouth and nose, as Boxers do.

"I know bud, I know," I said as I gently stroked his back.

Rocky was not eating, and I grew concerned. I learned a dog's diet is critical to overall health in what and when they eat. Years earlier, the vet had placed him on allergy medicine due to skin bumps until I realized a poor-grade food had caused the issues. No medication was needed once I changed to an all-natural diet. Now, I worried his apparent depression could rekindle other health issues.

On day four, we had taken up our station on the deck when Rocky stood and strode into the cabin. He returned a few minutes later with his long lead in his mouth and stood in front of me. The sad, unblinking eyes stared at me as if forcing a mind meld with mine. He pranced three steps away, grunted a growl, and returned. After the act was repeated three times, I relented.

"Okay, okay, we will go for a short walk," I said.

We turned down Three Pond road cut out between rich green forested ridges. Rocky took charge, set a strong pace, and towed me past the trout ponds where a herd of deer grouped. He plowed ahead until we paused for a gaggle of wild turkeys crossing the road ahead of us, secure in their distance. Deeper into the uninhabited wild of the woods, he led us until I stopped.

"This is far enough, Rocky," I said, "Let's go home."

He ignored me with a glance of compassionate contempt, turned his head forward, and continued pulling me in his wake. A heavy rustle in the woods alerted us, and we stopped. Fifty yards away, a black bear clawed his way up a North Carolina Pine and stood wary until we moved on. We returned to the cabin, and my Fitbit displayed we had walked three mountain miles. Rocky consumed all the food in his bowl, and we both slept the entire night.

The following morning I returned to my static station on the deck when Rocky again stood before me with the long lead in his mouth.

"Grmmmmph," he gurgled from his throat. (Translation, Let's go!)

The daily ritual became a routine, rain or shine, because Rocky would not relent on his mission. Each day we walked and explored deeper into the mountain, up and down ridges, and soon moved off-road to foot and game trails. I carried a day pack with water and snacks for us both. A one-hour walk became a six-hour adventure and then eight or more. We often would find an isolated outcrop of boulders overlooking the quilted patchwork valleys below. We were miles from any other human, and we'd rest to monitor our furry neighbors up until twilight. The ever-present squirrels, the covert Bobcats, brazen black bears, potent skunks, curious gophers, wary badgers, playful otters, lethal snakes, and multitudes of deer contemplated us too.

In times past, Rocky would want to pursue the manifest of critters. Now, on silent alert, he would stare, and they would stare back in the language of animals. After a time, the wildlife would turn away in acceptance and continue on their path. I wondered what Rocky communicated to them to establish the truce.

Together, Rocky and I came into sync with the rhythm of the mountain and the multitudes of life pulsing through its wilds. The mountain inhaled and exhaled life and allowed us to share its breath.

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Today, I'm not sure who saved who, but I'm forever grateful for the love and loyalty of my therapist Rocky the Boxer. He dragged us from a morose existence into the grace of nature to revive our souls.

Thank you, Rocky Balboa Wade. I am forever grateful and will love you forever.

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