A Dog Named Joey

I kneel down at the crest of the meadow; the trail is winding up through the junipers; cutting through the grassland where cattle are roaming. I pause sitting back on the rocks that edge the trail leading towards the Pacific Crest. I’m tired, my shirt soaked with sweat clinging to my back. Joey my four-legged hiking partner is prancing at the edge of the leash, frenzied with the need to chase the cattle. He glances back at me, his sigh showing his displeasure at my not allowing him to herd. He licks at my hand, then glances back at the them as though to remind me that he’s a cattle dog and that I’m interfering with the nature of things. I smile, kissing the top of his head, hugging him close I whisper a lullaby to calm his nerves. Joey my Joey, the best dingo dog there could be, Joey my Joey my heart belongs to thee.

He relaxes then, sinking onto his stomach in the cool grass of the meadow finally quieting but still watching the cattle, ready to pounce if I allow. We lay together, his head on my stomach listening to the wind rustle through the leaves, I bury my hands in his fur; his heartbeat steadying mine.

I can see my husband further up the ridge, he’s waiting in the shadows of the pine trees. From my vantage point I can catch snippets of him chewing on the maple colored jerky that we bought on our road trip here. I watch as he sips his water, and rests on the side of the trail. He’s lingering on purpose, giving Joey and me our space. He understands that this is our meditation, that the wild is where we come alive. He stays close in case he’s needed but doesn’t intrude. Respecting the bond, I have with my four-legged partner, he often teases me that I love Joey more than I do him and that if we were marooned on a sinking ship I’d grab Joey without hesitation. I shake my head when he says this, assuring him he’s wrong, yet later I wonder about his words.

Joey was an Australian cattle dog, I had come across his puppy photo on Facebook, a discounted dog due to a defect, he was born with almost no tail. I remember showing Chris, my husband the photo. Commenting that the pup was like me a defect, only his was physical where mine lurked in the dark corners of my brain. I wanted him, that puppy with the black mask and blue mottled fur. Yet I Knew I couldn’t have him, I was barely keeping myself alive let alone caring for a high energy pup.

Weeks later my mother would drive to the airport late at night to find a crate at baggage claim, plastered with fragile and livestock stickers. I imagine her driving home and talking to this little blue dog, of telling him his mission here. Of the girl he had to love, to save. Chris had tracked down the breeder and bought the little defect puppy to surprise me.

That night, my mother texted and honked her horn from our driveway. Ignoring her, I sent Chris out, he returned moments later claiming my mother needed my help. I reluctantly rose from the couch, my hair greasy from days of not showering piled on top of my head. My oversized sweatshirt disguising the weight my antidepressants had caused. The night camouflaged my mother, and at first, I thought she held a blanket. Then the blanket moved, and a small face appeared. Smiling she placed the pup in my arms. I tightened my grip around his wriggling body, burying my face in his fur. He smelled like puppy shampoo and dirt, I kissed his head.

I named him Sawyer after one of my favorite characters from a book. That night he confidently snuggled his small body against my chest asleep ‘instantly. I however was panicking, this wasn’t the time in my life for a puppy, for a responsibility. I was mere months removed from a suicide attempt that had only failed because my husband broke down a door and cut me down. I was weeks past being in-patient, in a hospital that felt more like a jail. A place that would have been perfect setting for the movie girl interrupted. I was barely eating, swallowing a myriad of pills just to survive. I was a hermit, self-imposed exile from the world. Now as I looked at the puppy I was certain I’d fail him too.

The next day I’d change his name, Sawyer didn’t fit though I was unsure why. I’d rotate through names like an old jukebox shuffling songs; none seemed to strike the right cord.

Within a day or two of no name pup’s arrival his newness wore off, and depression once again took control. I withdrew into my room, leaving the pup in the capable hands of my husband. Yet this little ball of fur wouldn’t be ignored, he would paw at my door, barking for my attention. He had somehow decided I was his person, and he wasn’t going to let anyone tell him different.

I slowly did more with him, loving how he would focus on me above all else, even food. He had claimed his spot either nestled near my chest or laying at my feet. He didn’t have the normal puppy playfulness instead he seemed wise beyond his young life. He’d watch my every move, ensuring he was never more than an arm’s length away. One night almost a week after getting him late at night I crept into the bathroom. I reread the suicide letter and once again plans formed in my head. I felt no guilt for leaving behind my husband, kids or mother I was certain they all were better off without me. I sat on the cold tile, letting my tears flow silently down my cheeks. Holding that crumpled piece of paper, I tried to think of what I could add, what magical word would stem their pain.

As I sat there I heard the pitter patter of paws, somehow the little blue dog had gotten the closed door open. He planted himself in my lap, gently licking at my tears. Try as I might I couldn’t get him to budge. Reluctantly I hid the paper under the counter again and cried into his fur. We spent the night on that floor him and I. I didn’t know it yet, but this little pup was saving me. Over the next week he would disrupt a train of dark thoughts by licking me, when the PTSD stole my sleep, he’d lay across my chest using his weight to calm me.

My mother commented that he seemed to have a sixth sense about me, a claim that soon gained merit when during a walk the little blue dog begin to whine and bark. Usually happy to trot alongside me, he now refused to budge. Both my mother and I tried to cajole him with high voices and treats but he held firm.

Suddenly I felt the all too familiar tunnel vision that always preceded my seizures. I barely made it to the ground, before the convulsions started. Soon I’d wake up, Chris having rushed to the road side had carried me back to our couch. As I opened my eyes I heard my mother relying what happened to Chris. “that little pup wouldn’t leave her side, it’s like he knew”

Later I would talk to Chris, I wanted to know why he had chosen this time in my life to surprise me with a puppy. He hugged me tight, he said it was a feeling something he couldn’t describe. He said he knew I had stopped living for me, and even for him. That I saw myself only has a burden to my family, a failure to my kids. Yet he saw me light up when I saw this puppy on Facebook, that I seemed to feel a kinship with him since he too was seen as defective. He hoped that this dog could give me the light I needed so badly.

The next night as I journaled, I talked to my dad, dead now 11 years I still would at times feel his presence. That night I just cried, through tears I spoke into the night about my trauma, my fears, my pain. I let it all out, hoping against hope for some sort of sign that my dad, my protector in life could see me now.

Exhausted from crying, I curled into a ball. The anxiety was shooting through me like a live wire, and I was barely able to breathe. Chris rubbed my back, and then that little blue dog wormed his way into my arms. He pressed his face against mine, his body curling into my chest. I again thought of leaving, of no longer breathing, of no longer suffering. Only this time I looked at this blue dog, who only looked for me, who only seemed to care for me. I didn’t see how I could leave him, sure he wouldn’t understand.

That night I dreamt of my father, of him handing this little blue dog to me. The dream so vivid that once awake I could smell his Salem cigarettes. I shook Chris, the little blue dog lying asleep between us, I knew now what his name was, it was Joey named for the man that sent him to me.

Joey seemed to love his new name, he’d come sprinting towards me whenever I called and plop at my side waiting to see what I did next. Soon I ventured out, finding my old hiking trails again and seeing the beauty that I was sure had been lost to me forever. Joey showed an obvious disinterest to other dogs and people, focused solely on me; we became an unbreakable team

He would in less than a year change my life, he taught me to live wildly. To find my voice, my passions and stop at nothing to achieve my dreams. He’d be the willing co-pilot on many adventures, he swam in the Gulf of Mexico and the Pacific Ocean. He climbed mountains, and navigated slot canyons with me. At least once a week we mountain bike, he leads the way and I happily follow.

He’s in tuned to me, when my moods become panicked, he applies pressure and licks to make me laugh. On the days where my auto immune disorder means I’m stuck in bed, he gladly sleeps beside me, choosing my rest over his energy needs.

With him I’ve found my voice, always shy and a bit insecure; the battle with depression had left me crumbled. I don’t do well with conflict and will become a doormat if it means I can avoid someone becoming angry. This has led to people taking advantage of me, or my feelings being hurt due to something someone had said. One day late in the fall, as Joey and I took a hike and off leash dog approached growling, no owner in sight. I placed my body between joey and the growling dog. I yelled loudly for the owner, my voice becoming hoarse from the volume of my scream. Finally, a man ambled up, nonchalky leashing the growling dog and saying he was pretty sure his dog wouldn’t bite. I could feel my panic rising, my hand instantly reaching for my anti-anxiety medication. I glanced at joey, saw how frazzled the pup had made him and I turned to the owner. I angrily stated that the dog should have been within his view, and that a dog growling and cornering my dog is never okay. He cussed me out and left, yet I felt good about it; I had found my voice finally.

As the months passed and our bond deepened, I’d find places we could explore off leash, trails that were remote and canyons and rivers we could explore. Joey made me feel safe, so I’d venture further and further into the wilderness confident in the partner I had. I could see how Joey thrived off leash, the way he came alive in the deserts and the rivers. The howl he’d direct at the moon all night, and the self-assured pose at the campsites helped me see his soul. He was the wildest of dogs I had ever known, let alone have in my life. He reminded me of the dingo that lurked somewhere in his lineage. I began to call him my very own dingo, my wild pup. I could see he needed adventure, and wide-open spaces that our yard in the suburbs wasn’t quenching the thirst he had for the wild. So, we began to explore road trips throughout Texas, then Colorado and soon a roundtrip cross country to California. We’d hike, camp, raft and navigate slot canyons. We picnicked in the desert, falling asleep under a blanket of stars. Overnight we’d listen to the coyote’s howl, Joey would sometimes join in, his wild matching theirs.

As we traveled we’d find cute Airbnb’s and nice hotels, letting Joey experience the luxuries of life as well as the wild parts. He’d proudly claim his spot on the bed, and groan if Chris took up too much space.

Joey isn’t an easy dog, he really likes very few people, and he’s even less accepting of other dogs. He demands my attention all the time, even on the days I’m too tired or preoccupied with work. He’s a relentless reminder to take a break, happy to distract from life he’ll pace around the living room until I relent and go walking with him.

Yet he’s my soul, his life is so deeply woven into the tapestry of who I am that I can no longer find me without finding him. We are own soul, two bodies.

As I sat there in the meadow more than a year since I first held his squishy body against my shaking chest, I say thank you. Thank you to the universe, the stars and the spirits. For those that were desperate enough to save me that they gave me the greatest gift of all.

Today I sit here preparing for a three-week adventure, off the grid just Joey, Chris and I. Together we’ll explore more desert, more rivers and more magic. Together we will face the world, I feel the peace settle over me. Stroking Joey’s fur I whisper love you to my dingo, he snuggles against my chest and together we drift off.

Our dreams will never be as magical as our bond, our life. Chris could be right, I might just have to rescue Joey first, it seems only fair since he rescued me.