W A N D E R E R

I had never appreciated what virtuous companionship a dog could offer me. An unrestrained friendship that I don't think I could ever replicate with a human, an innocent trust between creature and woman that I'll remember 'til my last days.

This tale is about a dog named Bjorn. A dog of black and white with floppy ears and bronze eyes. I don't own him, he's not my dog, he's my close friend Kat's. I moved in with her when she first got him, when he was a scrappy ball of fluff that liked to snooze under the coffee table and nibble at your shins when you were trying to watch television. I remember having to scoop him up like a podgy little baby whenever we crossed one of the busiest streets in Calgary, and I'd whisper 'I'm sure you do this on purpose so people give you attention'.

Kat and I are thriving friends, a Scotswoman and Englishwoman both living in a foreign country with no family nearby, we knew we had each other. Bjorn is her dog, and I was affectionately coined his 'Wine Aunt'. When Kat had work I'd take him for walks and watch him prance like a wild deer in fresh fallen snow, sometimes we would take him up to the viewpoint where we would watch the sunsets with the pup. Other times we would drive to our favourite place in Canmore: a dog park ringed by the majesty of the Canadian Rockies. Precious memories forged in sweet happiness, watching Bjorn (a Newfoundland x Pyrenees) try and befriend everything that moved, from blind chihuahua's in our local park, to massive crossbreeds that he would soon outgrow.

I contemplated what tale to tell to do justice for Bjorn and make Kat proud, but there were just too many. I'm back in England now, and with each click of my keyboard I miss him and my friend more.

There is one thing that I can conclusively say is probably my favourite thing about big Bjorn, and that's his singing. Yes, his singing. Sometimes a little pitchy and sudden, sometimes sounding a little like a cacophony of panicked turkeys, but always done in raw delight. When excited, his whines turned into full operatic tunes, whether it be at the mention of a park or the name of his best friend: a golden named Freya. His little floppy ears would perk and before you knew it his fat head would be inches from yours with puzzlement and excitement brewing in his eyes.

I was there for a lot of Bjorn's firsts, which I am eternally grateful for. His first Christmas, his first time camping, his first time up a mountain.

The tree of us shared a little tent together (and I'm a 6ft woman, so I can only apologise to Kat and Bjorn!) and for those that understand Albertan weather, you'll know that the end of September can be a bit of a nippy time to camp. Nonetheless, we drove up to a sheltered spot in Kananaskis and pitched up our little abode for the next few nights. Bjorn became our own living heater - being a dog made for winter, he had no trouble. Us on the other hand? Dithering! He curled up between us, and by curled up I mean doggy legs were splayed all over, at one point I woke up to a paw almost in my mouth. And he had big paws, even as a puppy! Bjorn made a joyous trip even more so, despite the cramps I got in the car from having him sleep on my lap or the insistent attempts at trying to get a bite of my road trip grub.

Or the time me and Kat hiked up Sulphur Mountain. We thought he might struggle with it a little, but I would have carried him up if I had to. Thankfully... I didn't. Because I hadn't quite clocked on to the fact I may have had difficulty since at the time he weighed about 80kg despite not even being a year old! Nevertheless, he marched up that mountain and said hello to everyone that he passed. His propellor tail practically created a backdraft from how much it wagged. When we reached the summit, all three of us took a while to cherish the view. Each unhindered, snow-capped peak glistening in clear sunlight. With a dog named Bjorn, it felt so right to say that it was like we had discovered the entrance to Valhalla. Yet despite the mightiness and supremacy of the mountains around us, I treasured the company more. Kat at one side, and Bjorn singing for us to keep hiking. For more adventure. When we set off again, he actually pulled us down the peak (a little to enthusiastically) to the point where both me and Kat ended up using the switchbacks as slides.

I think it was that day Bjorn truly learnt to stop and come, because we had to take it in turns. One would stay up a little dip in the path, the other would make their way down and call him to them. Efficiency at its finest, right? And our glutes could only take so much of a beating from the amount of times both us and the dog slipped.

I could tell you about the times we've taken him to frozen lakes, to skitter and skate across cracking ice that sounded like cable snapping. Sometimes I'd cling into his lead and tell him to run - I think it's the fastest I've ever gone on skates, to be honest.

But it dawned on me that my most precious time with him was something unexpected. A time of solitude and honesty.

On my 24th birthday.

An encroaching lockdown partnered with a busy work-life and no family in the country meant a yearly lonesomeness had weighed down my soul. It had been far too long since I'd seen my parents because of the pandemic, and while I loved and appreciated my friends, it wasn't the same as being with my mom and dad.

I came home from work to an empty apartment. And a smelly one. Bjorn had a bad tummy, and had unfortunately ruined his bed because of it. I wasn't annoyed, but it epitomized that sense of 'Wow, what a shit birthday'. Nonetheless I went about cleaning it up, showered, and clambered into bed to sulk for a little bit.

And it's this moment that I remember with a vivid clarity.

I heard the pitter patter of claws against wood, and a light thud of his nose pushing my bedroom door open. Bjorn sat in my doorway, eyes of mahogany peeping at me with an understanding that maybe he wanted to sulk too. Rarely did he understand personal space - he's a loving dog, and often wants to be as close as possible to you - but this time he peered in and waited. Patting my bed and murmuring a faint offer for cuddles, he hopped up onto my bed and lay beside me.

My little doggy nephew. Almost as tall as me now, and definitely heavier, with a head so large we dubbed him our "Moon-brother", but still a sweet suck for some love and attention. He rested his chin on my stomach and gazed up at me. I wondered if it was true when people say dogs can read human emotion so I smiled, only faintly, and he responded by edging further up until his snout was at my chin. The innocence of companionship. That's all he wanted, and all I wanted. To share a simple cuddle and snooze. I'd die for this dog, I'd sail across the ocean and protect him if Kat so much as implied I had to. A resolution I firmly decided as we drifted off for a nap...

All until Kat came home and he resounded with joy once more at his mom returning. He even sang a few notes for us!