Jake

He was a second-hand dog. A hand-me-down from a previous, anonymous owner. There was an ad in a weekly shopper, in the classifieds, in the back. The copy was straight-forward and simple:

Retriever
Large Chesapeake for sale.
Two years old. Fixed. Had all his shots.
$35

I called him Jake. I had never owned a retriever before, much less a Chesapeake. We were both in for a lesson in relationships that would change our lives for the better. Jake was set in his ways, tireless and on the job until we were done, he was also stubborn, resistant to change/training, and somewhat aloof. I was used to dogs that couldn’t do enough for me (or the biscuit I had in my pocket). Joyful, toy fetching cuddlers, including an Old English Sheepdog who was both clown and nanny.

Jake and I fished, hunted, backpacked and camped through the seasons. He was up for anything if it involved ‘doing.’ But to get there, in our first year together, we had to learn to trust. Jake had probably been mistreated, unintentionally, by his original owner who didn’t understand the breed’s unique personality. I never owned a dog that needed to trust me before following commands, particularly new ones. It was slow going. There were times when I would simply quit and walk away from training in the middle of a session out of sheer frustration. And other times when Jake would follow my direction like it was second nature. It was in one of these moments of direction and obedience that I came to understand the only variable in the equation was me.

Jake instinctively knew the situation, often before I did. He was comfortable on his own and never whined or became destructive when left if I was gone for most of a day. He was his own man. On the other hand, nothing gave him greater pleasure than accompanying me on outdoor adventures. Being a retriever, that was his world. He liked it all. Between bird seasons when he’d retrieve doves, pheasants, or ducks, Jake loved to watch me fish. He’d hike along by my side as we crossed streams or crawled down steep trails to reach my favorite trout creeks. Then he’d stay on the bank and watch me cast into the riffles. Once hooked, his eyes would remain focused on the action as I played the smallish rainbows. He’d wade out to watch me release it back into the water, never lunging for the thrashing trout. It was the same over and over. Jake’s attention was intense but never aggressive.

Later, after a couple of hours, I’d pause for lunch, sharing the crust of a sandwich with my companion. Afterwards, I might lean back in the shade and doze for a short nap. Jake would close his eyes, but his instinct to stay alert never rested. And it was this instinct which saved me from a nasty situation in early fall on Miller’s Creek in the eastern Sierra foothills.

Miller’s Creek is a meadow stream that flows out of tall pines into a pleasant, little valley. The watercourse is lined with cottonwoods. Late September the leaves turn a brilliant yellow against the stark blue sky, days reminiscent of Hemingway’s Upper Michigan stories. I had been fishing for less than an hour and paused to replace the Caddis imitation I snagged on a back cast. Leaning against a weathered, gray tree trunk to tie on a new fly, I sensed Jake stiffen up, and when I looked down, I could tell his eyes were fixed on the opposite bank and the brush lining the water. Then I heard the distinctive grumble of a black bear as the creature parted the bushes, lifting its nose to the air tracking a scent. Jake had moved in front of me. The bear and my dog stared intensely at each other across the space, the babbling water the only sound in the moment. I was motionless, hardly breathing, waiting for what could happen next. Finally, with a snort, the bear backed away and disappeared into the underbrush. Jake didn’t move for a minute before nudging my leg as if to say, ‘the coast is clear, we did good.’

When I drove home that night with my companion and protector snoring in the cab of my pick-up I reached over placing my hand on his head silently expressing my love and gratitude for the finest dog I’d ever owned.

Jake died at the age of twelve. I didn’t have to take him to the vet to have him put down. He just left me in his sleep. Quietly. The way he had lived. The way he always filled the space next to me. I wrapped him in canvas and took him out into the pasture where I buried him in an open field, next to a small waterway that borders the property. There’s a wooden marker there which reads: Jake. Second-hand dog. Best friend ever.