The Healing Hound

The moment her paws hit the dirt trail she loses any semblance of self-control. She can no longer contain all eighteen pounds of herself. Sticking obediently by my side is no longer an option—her entire being is vibrating to the rhythmic drumming of primitive canine joy, and she must run! Good god(dess), this good girl is moving so fast she is practically levitating above the earth, ready to ascend into the heavens, angel that she is, I am mesmerized by her spirit, still a pup at the core even now at thirteen years old.

Fallon leads the way, always, with her sharp black nose guiding us up the mountain path, my worn hiking boots carrying me as quickly as my legs can move to keep pace with her as she scrambles up granite rock. She pauses to look back at me, grinning, always, her little, rough pink tongue hanging loose as if to say, “Hey, are you here?”

Ever present, ever mindful, our bodies moving, skin and fur soaking in the sun, noses breathing in the scent of pine, cold streams, wet rock, moss, dirt, sweat, and don’t forget the snacks I carry for us in my blue Osprey daypack. When we reach the peak, she noses her way into the side pocket of the pack and wags her tail looking up at me expectantly.

I sit down on the boulder we have landed on, and I pull out her treats, “Sit,” I say. Fallon plants herself firmly on the ground, her black ears perked forward. “Dance,” I say, and Fallon balances herself in her hind legs and twirls herself in a circle and yips. I toss the bone shaped cookie, and she doesn’t chew, just inhales each peanut butter biscuit treat I toss. I finish my own granola bar and chug water from my Nalgene as Fallon raises her head to the wind and sniffs the air, wet nose twitching, and she nudges me to get up to my feet and move forward, she’s got something good to explore.

She is a good girl.

It has been almost eight years since my mother died and nearing on the eight year anniversary of Fallon and I finding one another. I was so lost in my grief then, treading the dark waters of depression and anxiety, I was growing tired, ready to sink. I didn’t know it was possible to find a way back to the land of hope. But then came Fallon, doggy paddling her way into my life to show me the way to shore.

I was living in Montana in 2014, working on trails, and volunteering with a local humane society as a dog walker when our stars crossed. All of the shelter pups had been walked with the exception of one that day of my volunteer shift: Fallon. She was in a secured outdoor kennel with a Dutch door. I opened the top half of the door expecting for her to hop up and greet me, but she had already started scaling the chain link fencing of the bottom half of the door the second I had unlatched the carabiner from the locking mechanism. I quickly snapped the leash onto her collar, and we were off. I noticed a sign on the ground by the door of her kennel as she began to pull and lead me far and away from the shelter, Escape Artist, it had read.

Walking Fallon that October afternoon, I felt in my soul that we were destined for one another, and she seemed to sense this too. As we took our walk and put distance between us and the shelter, Fallon fell into a steady rhythm walking with me and she paused to look up at me as if to give thanks. After our walk we lolled around on the grass of one of the designated play areas and she snuggled into me and fell asleep.

Fallon had been adopted out twice and returned to the shelter due to behavioral issues her adopted families were not equipped to cope with. She was six years old. Fallon was one of the older dogs who had even a lesser chance of finding a home quickly given her track record. She had been abused and had severe separation anxiety which led to destructive tendencies and she was a runner—a brilliant little dog that could figure her way out of any predicament.

My mother had died in the spring, by suicide, and life as I had known it fell out from underneath me, and I in turn shattered and broke apart, scattering all the different parts of my self into hundreds of tiny, sharp pieces.

Fallon and I were both in need of repair, love, patience, and healing. We took to the mountains. I kept her close and on leash. Afraid she would run away from me and never come back. Afraid that I would be abandoned. Afraid that I would be alone again.

But this little dog was always right at my heel. At local breweries, parties at friend's places, even in our apartment, she would be right outside the bathroom door waiting for me. Call it codependency, I call it trust, safety, the bond of love.

One early morning, as we took to the trail, I paused at the head of the path and unclasped Fallon's leash from her collar. She paused, looking up at me as if to say, "Finally." And she bolted. Up the worn trail she zoomed, and I watched as she began bounding from one switchback to the next, and she was looking back and down at me as she made her way. And then just as quickly her little black body hurled itself right back down to me at the trailhead. She wiggled and yipped, "Let's go!"

We traded the Montana mountains for a Massachusetts suburb thirty minutes from the Atlantic to be closer to family and friends. She is just as happy sniffing through the stinky, soft tissue of clams strewn on shore as she was the berry filled droppings of a bear on the trail climbing Mount Ascension. We spend the changing seasons hiking the White Mountains of New Hampshire, catching the first sunrise on the east coast at the top of Cadillac Mountain with the rest of the tourists in Acadia National Park in Maine, and we explore the beaches of the Cape, turning seashells, and chasing seagulls while playing a game of tag with the ocean waves.

Now, after our adventure, she lazes on the couch, missing teeth, mostly deaf, partially blind, and occasionally incontinent. I rub her ears and tell her, “You are a good dog.” She thumps her tail gently and nuzzles her head into my hand before drifting off to sleep and dream of trails, deer, and her two front teeth.