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In this writer’s opinion, Boone, a blond Labrador in his twilight years, certainly lives up to the saying man’s best friend.
SUBMITTED PHOTO
Last Saturday was just the sort of sunny, dappled fall day we like, my old friend and I.
Temperatures rose slowly as the sun played with the early-morning autumn air, allowing a refreshing coolness to linger but promising heat by afternoon. Russet-colored leaves bathed in a soft, red light of serenity, in pleasing contrast to the fading greens and bright, dancing yellows of surrounding trees.
It was a morning that captured the essence of the season and shouted: “Football and hunting and let’s go to the park.”
It was the kind of morning that tells you subtly to spend it with your wife, your children, or perhaps an old friend.
My old friend and I have spent many a day together on a day like Saturday. For almost 10 years, we have boarded a plane each fall and traveled to the Northeast where all the forces that rushed over the senses on this day had been intensified. Mornings were cooler. The changing colors of the leaves were brighter.
And we were younger.
We said we took the autumnal trip to go bird hunting. Ruffed grouse and woodcock were our quarry. Mostly, though, we went for the beauty of fall and to walk among the fields and along the stone walls of abandoned farmhouses with their old apple trees dropping wormy fruit. Wormy, but still reproducing and hanging resplendent in leafy coats of red and yellow, and combinations of the two.
“Birds love these old apple orchards,” I’d say to him, “and we’ll find birds here and along these old, stone walls.”
I promised a lot but produced little over the years. We walked many a mile, and on some days shot frequently at birds too wary or too fast — or both — for our skills.
We were not, on most days, successful or even good hunters, but we were really there for the beauty of a fall day. Our sights were usually set as much on finding a good lunch spot as they were on game.
On a day that stands out in a book of many memories, we climbed a hill and found a couch at its crest — so out of place, but perfectly perched to be able to sit and look down in comfort onto a meadow. A pond, blue and placid and reflective, glistened in the middle of the field. All of this was surrounded by the full palette of fall colors covering the trees and leaves.
We took photographs of our view, only to discover once we were home that as beautiful as the sight was on paper, it had been even more magnificent to the naked eye.
Selfish as it seems, we were pleased we didn’t have to share fully the fun of the out-of-place couch and the scenery with others. They could have the photographs. We had the memory.
After we took our pictures, we shared a sandwich, and then fell asleep in the midday sun. Just the two of us, on that couch.
His snoring eventually awakened me, and we rose and hiked into the woods to roust some more birds.
But that was long ago — five, maybe eight falls ago. We’ve had many an October-November day such as that one over the years. But now those are over.
He can’t handle air travel anymore, and he has trouble moving as quickly, as athletically, as he once did. We have our ailments.
His back bothers him; my left knee hurts after I’ve been sitting too long.
Last Saturday, we decided to go for a ride in the car together. He’s older than I am, by 20 years, and I had to help him into the car. There was a time when he’d hit the front seat with a quick leap.
We stopped for breakfast, and I read the paper briefly. Our vision is not as acute as it used to be. He has cataracts.
There was work to do at the office, so we drove there. Everywhere we looked, we saw the signs and felt the cool, morning air that used to call us into the woods.
At work, we took the elevator, even though it’s only one floor up to the office. He can’t climb the stairs.
He needed some water and drank it to quench a great thirst. Shortly after, he drifted off to sleep while I worked at the computer.
Soon he was snoring loudly but with great contentment. I gazed at him, his blond hair turning gray in spots, particularly around his whiskers.
His contented snoring reminded me of the fall hunting day, both of us on the couch. As I watched him, his face twitched and he seemed to smile in his slumber. He, too, I thought, is recalling the many beautiful fall days we’ve spent together, maybe even the one that felt so much like this one, on the hill overlooking the meadow, the pond, the magnificent foliage. He was dreaming.
I’d like to say that Boone is the best dog I’ve ever owned, but I’ve owned several good ones. He’s the most memorable, though, because of his personality.
Boone has always been full of fun and mischief, and he’ll test your patience until you cannot take it anymore — and then he’ll behave.
He has grown old before my eyes, and as I thought about how we used to spend a day such as last Saturday, I grew more melancholy about his age and his somewhat fragile health.
He has shown the loyalty to me that only a dog can show. There were many times he should have just up and left me. But he didn’t.
He always has been happy to see me and never seemed to take it personally when I screamed and yelled at him and his stubbornness.
So as the leaves faded and early darkness fell outside the office windows, I wanted to write a tribute to a great dog while he’s still with me.
They say one year of a dog’s life is equivalent to seven of a human’s.
That makes Boone, my blond Labrador, about 70.
Like fall moving toward winter when much of the world is asleep, Boone slowly is edging his way to his own winter, this one of permanent sleep. I don’t want to wait to write about him. I want to remember our fun together while I can look into his aging, soulful eyes and face.
Snore on, my friend. Sleep at my feet, twitch and smile with the memories of dappled days when we were both younger and imagined ourselves hunters.