This man’s best friend was the compass, the energy for life.
Now, as Calhoun lies on his cushion by the woodstove, his
runs through the forest are over. Only a few days shy of 7 years old, my buddy
is in his final hours on this earth. The vet will be here in two hours to put
him down and out of his pain forever.
Cancer has eaten his bones. He has given up a noble fight.
But his soul shines on. I can see it in his eyes.
He remembers as well as I do all of our adventures. The
canoe rides on Nubanusit Lake. The daily morning jaunts. The long Saturday off-trail
hauls. The walks up the road. The trips to the dump. The daily errands.
I Had My Doubts
Calhoun is my fourth dog as a grownup. First there was
Carly, the beautiful brown golden retriever/Newfoundland mix I got in college.
Then Brindle joined our pack, and was devastated when Carly died. So we got
Pokey, an Australian shepherd to keep Brindle company. When they went on to the
green pastures in the sky, we waited a few months, dogless, until my wife
picked Calhoun out of a litter.
That day in 2007, Adine drove south from Madison, N.H., with
my two sons to my office in Concord to show me our new dog, Calhoun. That was
his given name. Calhoun was a rescue dog, supposedly from an abandoned litter
in Kentucky.
I took one look at this lanky pup’s paws and knew that this
was going to become a very large dog. I thought, “Oh no, honey. What have you
gotten us into?”
I had my doubts whether Calhoun would work out. He chewed
the furniture. He ate my money. He ran away. He was dumb about cars. He didn’t
listen. He couldn’t be trained. He destroyed our screens. He ate too much and
threw up. He growled at the kids when they went near his food. He needed
therapy.
Adine would ask me, “Do you love him?”
My constant answer was a private joke to myself, always. I
would say, “He’s not the dog I would’ve picked,” shaking my head. But every
time, I would think to myself: “Oh yeah. I love this dog.”
At some point, Adine caught on to my inside joke. She knew
how strongly we had bonded.
The Trust Sets In
Working at home for the past four years, Calhoun and I were
together all the time, 24/7, all year long. We were inseparable, like twins who
do and think everything together. We even started to look alike.
While he was perfectly happy at home – proving his
distinction as our first dog allowed on the couch – Calhoun was in his element
in the woods.
I worried sometimes that he would be mistaken for a deer,
and tried various orange vests and dog attire to prove his canine-ness. None of
it fitted right or lasted long.
On our early jaunts, when Calhoun was a wandering
adolescent, I didn’t trust him in the woods. I leashed him for a long time,
which was positively unwieldy when we were bushwhacking off trails. But gradually,
the trust set in among both of us.
I trusted Calhoun that he would always stay with me. And he
did. And he trusted me that we would always go somewhere fun. And we did.
My Leader, My Compass
On those freestyle forest forays, I always thought I was
leading the direction, even when there was no clear destination. Just me and
Calhoun and the woods.
Over time I began to realize that Calhoun was leading me. He
brought me to the woods. His energy drove mine. He was my leader, my compass.
He kept me straight.
Now as Calhoun winds down his too-short life, I’ll always
remember his wisdom, his strength, his boundless energy for life.
You taught me well, buddy. I’ll miss you.
Eric Aldrich writes
from his home in Hancock.
