By Virginia Powell Symons
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Bix is lying on my feet, her weight and warmth grounding me. It’s now 4:45 a.m., and it has been over an hour since our carbon monoxide alarm went off. The problem has been identified and the house aired out, the windows open wide to the winter’s pre-dawn. My husband and son have returned to bed, but I am wide awake. The adrenaline now worn off, I am shaking and exhausted as I sit in the cold living room. Bix’s breathing is steady, but she is not sleeping. Her head is down, but her eyes look to me. She is completely present.
Zaagi was curled on the back seat as we sped through the rural darkness. The sky to the east was barely showing a pink glow, warning of storms (red in the morning, sailors take warning). I had driven through the night, and we were nearing our destination. We were alone on the road. Then I saw a figure far ahead. As we neared, I could see that it was a young woman, her long hair blowing around her face, her thumb out for a ride. I sped past, then in my rearview mirror I saw her jump, waving her arms frantically, running after us as she grew smaller in the distance. She then dropped to her knees, head to the ground. Something deep in my gut told me to turn around.
When she opened my passenger door and climbed in, Zaagi bolted upright, suddenly on alert. As I looked at the girl’s face, I could see that her eyes were beginning to swell closed, her lip was split, blood trickled from behind her ear, and her face was becoming darker and more misshapen by the moment. I reached into the cooler behind my seat and pulled out an ice pack. As I reached over to hold it against her face she winced away from me, shaking, terrified. I handed it to her and told her that we needed to call the police.
“No!” she cried, and the look on her face told me to trust her. “Take me to my mother’s.”
I put the car in gear as her shaking hand tried to hold the cold pack to her face. Zaagi’s face reached forward, gently and firmly pushing the girl’s hand to her face. She melted into the head of the big dog, leaning into her hard and sobbing. Zaagi leaned right back, holding the ice pack in place as the girl’s slender arm wrapped tightly around her neck.
I followed the girl’s guidance and pulled into the gravel driveway of a small house not far off the main road. She met my eyes and opened the car door. She turned and tightly hugged Zaagi, burying her face in soft, black fur. Then she was gone without a word. As I turned to drive away, I saw a light switch on and the door of the house open. A large dog ran to the girl, and the last thing I saw was her dropping to the ground to throw her arms around the muscular neck.
Zonker was not quite 8 years old when my son was born. He was a stunning dog, a lean and muscular 140 pounds of enthusiasm, intelligence, humor, and sweet stubbornness. He had challenged me in more ways than I could count, but perhaps that was one of the reasons that I loved him so dearly. And while Zonker had lived the joyful life of most dogs in the Tetons, it became clear that his purpose had finally been fulfilled when we came through the door with our tiny brand-new human. As a new mother I was overwhelmed, smitten, and blindsided by all the things that I didn’t know and could never have anticipated. Zonker, however, knew exactly what to do. With gentle strength and complete confidence, he would rest his muzzle on the swaddled bundle and all fussing would cease. He kept vigil beside his tiny charge, rarely sleeping, always aware, a steadfast presence to be reckoned with. He was completely in love. Zonker was born to be a nanny dog.
Zeppelin is in her twilight; 12 years is a long life for a big dog. While her outlook remains unchanged, Zeppelin’s body is tired and beginning to fail. There is something about a deeply loved old dog that embodies all that is good in the world — they carry themselves with a wisdom that can only come from years of adventures and growth in the company of a true partner. As Zeppelin and I slowly meander through the early evening on our daily walk, my mind wanders through the years of shared rocky trails, alpine lakes, long skis, beach wanders, toddler walks, cross-country drives, campfires, and so much more. All of these memories are the colors of the mosaic of my adult life, making the milestones that we’ve achieved together that much more poignant. As I watch her slowly stroll at my side, I can almost see my son grabbing the fur on her shoulder to pull himself up to take his first steps. My life is so busy now, and yet these evening walks that keep her old muscles going are as necessary for me as they are for her. In this time with her, she forces me to slow my world and my thoughts, to be present with her and with myself.
Thirty thousand years ago modern humans were radiating out from Africa and moving into what is now Europe and Asia. The first domesticated dogs have been dated to approximately that same time. For tens of thousands of years, humans and dogs have grown and traveled, lived and died, together. It is clear to me, as my sweet girl now warms my feet and calms my mind, that I could not be who I am without her and the others who came before her. I, and indeed all of humanity, have had the good fortune of this partnership which is steadfast and true. And while my many adventures are all the more memorable due to the presence of my canine partners, the role of dogs truly shines in the quiet moments in between.
