Near Three Creeks Lake.
The color of wheat, with deep brown eyes and a tiny black nose, a tough little street puppy found us one late night in Carthage, Missouri. She had worms and fleas and no home. That was thirteen years ago. She made us whole ever since.
You may have known her by another name. Fachini, Fachi, Dog Face, DF, Fuzzers, Fuzzy, Fuzzini, Cousin C, C Dog, Brownie and so many more.
There were the years that she went everywhere with us. And there were some days that we stepped around her as we took care of babies. But she was always there.
She loved being anywhere. She canoed the Missouri, the John Day, the Clackamas, the Willamette and the Columbia. She climbed Mount St. Helens and the South Sister. She hiked and backpacked for miles and miles. She loved the ocean. She loved any river or lake. Yet she hated getting a bath.
She battled muskrats, possums, rats, cats and dogs. She once tried to take down a vulture. We watched her stalk three turkeys. She chased cows, deer and elk and once pondered a black bear.
She’d been slowing down lately. Taking long, long naps. Eating very little. Her breathing was slow. It took a bit of effort to get up and bark at the mailman. And yet, she jumped into the car Thursday afternoon as we headed out for a weekend at a friend’s cabin on Mount Rainier.
She died, it seems, just as we arrived. She looked so comfortable, we thought she was sleeping. And so she rests there now, beneath the firs and the ferns, by a creek, near a cabin, just down the road from a big mountain.
On Clear Lake.
all content © Tim LaBarge 2010