Good dog is hard to find

N.S. NOKKENTVED

Originally published July 3, 2001

I said goodbye to an old friend last week.

My wife and I were back in Idaho gathering our belongings. In the rush of moving, I managed to spend a few moments at his grave.

Huxley was a long-haired black dog of indistinct origins and about 100 pounds. I rescued him from the pound, and I like to think I gave him a good life. I took him on long hikes, fed him well and let him sleep in the house.

Once we got to know each other, he was a real comfort to have around. He had a way of putting his head in my lap when he knew I was sad. He got me through some tough times, and he was a good companion during years I lived alone.

But he was no hunting dog.

No noises

I took him out pheasant hunting with four friends. Right away, Huxley got the scent of something and disappeared into some thick brush. A fine pheasant cock came flying out the top. All five of us blasted away and missed.

The dog was so startled by the barrage that he headed straight back to the truck as fast as he could. I found him there a little later, still shaking. It was the last time either of us went hunting.

Over time, he forgave me, but he never got over his fear of gunfire. Once while we were paddling near a skeet-shooting range I felt a strange vibration in the canoe. It was Huxley. Only when he could no longer hear the shots did the vibration stop.

The Fourth of July was hell for the poor fellow.

Though he hated the water -- he didn't mind wading a little -- I taught him to ride in the canoe.

The first time, he sat there tense, claws trying to find purchase on the smooth metal hull. I thought he was going to be OK. But when we pulled away from the dock, he jumped. A couple of guys pulled him out of the water.

That dunking was enough. He never jumped out again.

After that I put his old sleeping bag out of the truck in the bottom of the canoe. That put him at ease, and after a few trips he seemed to enjoy our frequent trips on the river.

Precious times

Mostly, I think he loved our long hikes in the hills around town. He would get excited when I pulled out my hiking boots.

No matter where I went, climbing over impossible rocks, he would strain, dig in his claws, determined to follow me. Occasionally I had to climb down and give him a boost.

Out in the sagebrush or in woods, he never strayed. And he never tangled with rattlesnakes. But he did tangle with a skunk -- twice -- same skunk. He got to sleep outside for a few nights until the aroma wore off.

As he got older, he slept more, our walks got slower, and he tired sooner.

Huxley died a couple of summers ago while I was away on vacation. He was about as good a friend as a man can expect. I buried him in the back yard, and the dirt now has sunk a little, marking the grave.

My wife and I packed up a load of memories, along with houseplants, two cats and the replacement dog, a bright young yellow Lab named for the Viking fertility goddess, Freyja.

She hasn't learned the art of canoeing yet -- but she's tail-wagging and eager to try.

N.S. Nokkentved covers the outdoors for the Olympian. When he's not out walking the dog, he can be reached at 360-754-5445.

The Olympian Copyright 2001

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