Zack’s Valley
It’s only a small valley, filled with aspen and lupine and summer grasses. Take Forest Service road 418 east out past the White Horse Hills to the Abineau-Bear Jaw turnoff. Be prepared for bumps and ruts and deep holes. And elk singing on autumn nights. And birds and butterflies, and if the light is just right, perhaps a golden shadow at the edge of your vision. That would he Zack, our beloved twelve year old retriever, who spent his last night on earth in our place of the heart—the valley he loved...
July, 1998: Wind is singing in the tall aspen trees setting the blue lupine and scarlet Indian paintbrush to swaying. Hill and I lilt tack out of the back of the Jeep, and lay him among the ferns and flowers. He lies there awhile, sniffing the air, gathering his strength to stand, as we set up our tents and build a tire. Finally, little by little, he sits up and then stands on quivering legs. His steps are slow and small, but he manages to walk a little way before collapsing into the bed of grasses. I whisper to him, stroking and petting down the length of his back, brushing off the flies that he can’t. Aspen leaves murmur overhead like the rustle of a thousand tiny angel wings.
Later we sit with our sons and their families in a circle around the fire, someone always with a hand on Zack. We rub and stroke and caress, hoping our hands carry the love he needs. Sometimes he goes off to be by himself, but the darkness brings him quickly back. He has a wonderful supper—Alpo Prime Cuts with gravy, potato chips, and Italian sausage—eating with some of his old gusto. Lapping up the water to quench his fever. Antibiotics are helping some, but they can’t cure him, only make him feel better for a little while.
That night I watch the stars through the top of the tent, and feel they are watching me back, watching over Zackie, asleep now on his rug. I think of the silent deer and elk, perhaps mountain lion and bear, padding softly near our camp clearing in the darkness. At first light a ruby-throated hummingbird peeks in our tent window, a bee hums against the screen. Black and yellow butterflies dance past the door of our tent. I feel a communion of all Nature’s creatures watching over this gentle old dog. Assuring him that this is, indeed, a fine day to die...
The same son who held puppy Zack so long ago now lifts him tenderly from the rug. But this morning he can’t eat or drink anymore, and we know it’s time to help him go. Silently, we pack up our tents and gear, douse the campfire and whisper our goodbyes to Zack, lying now head down, black flies buzzing near in the July heat. We lift him gently, one more time, back into the cool, air-conditioned car. In spite of it being Sunday morning, the vet takes us right in...
Though we’ve returned in all seasons to this small valley, in our dreams there are always flowers and butterflies and summer grasses. And a dancing golden shadow that fits perfectly into that dog-shaped hole in our hearts.