What can you say about a 10 year old dog that died? That he was handsome and exuberant. That he loved food, long walks in the woods, Steve and me.
[As I contemplated writing this story about my dog Rio, the opening lines from the movie Love Story, based on Erich Segal’s novel by the same name, kept popping into my head. I felt compelled to paraphrase those memorable lines, as this too is a love story.]
Loss, whether experienced at one year, ten years, 50 years or more, is loss. Whether human or animal, we cherish the memories of the ones we hold dear. I don’t think we really let go. We say they are always with us. We see them in our mind’s eye and continue to feel their presence in curious ways.
The idiom “dogging our footsteps” accurately depicts a dog’s presence in our lifetimes and beyond. Anyone who has lost an animal will tell you that they hear their footsteps and sense their presence long after they have died.
10 years seems such a short span of time, and yet it can be a lifetime.
Rio was born to a German Shepherd mother in a house in the woods somewhere off Kalalla Road on the 19th of May, 2014. At the time, I was regularly carpooling to work in Ottawa with a neighbour, Will, from down the road. As I had lost my previous dog, Wolf, in the spring, talk on the commute inevitably turned to whether I would be wanting another dog. Given that I was a dog lover, I said I would.
A few months later, Will mentioned an acquaintance whose dog had 6 puppies and that the puppies were free to those who would give them a good home. Will put me in touch with the owner, and I arranged to see the pups.
My husband Steve did not take a lot of convincing to take a look at the puppies. Having had all male dogs in the past, we were thinking it would be nice to have a female, but as fate would have it, the two females were spoken for.
When we got to the house in the woods the 6 puppies were frolicking about. They were all quite different, some with long hair, some with curly hair, some black, some black and brown, and two blond pups. The blond pups looked 100% Labrador Retriever. One of them had been dubbed Sandy because of his colouring, but his name was soon changed.
Three factors came together in the naming of our new pup; the World Cup was being held in Rio de Janeiro and we were soccer enthusiasts; Steve was a longtime Springsteen aficionado who loved his album, The River; and our house overlooked the hills on both side of the Gatineau River. With family consensus, Sandy was ever after, Rio.
Rio came home with us mid-July and he was barely 8 weeks old. He rode home on my lap and I think we bonded from those very first moments together.
From the get-go, Rio thought he was human, well, at least deserving of human luxuries. He loved crawling up on a cozy chair, even a lawn chair. He preferred our bed to his own and whenever the opportunity presented itself, he was there. Ever an opportunist, it got so that we had to ensure the bedroom door was closed and if we left the house, that we had strategically placed various placemats on the living room couch and chairs.
Rio had many quirks and no appreciation of boundaries. He would jump up on people arriving at the door and occasionally bark at them, not in any threatening way, perhaps more to be heard or to let them know he was looking out for us. Who knows? Apologies to friends and neighbours. He meant well.
Admittedly, we were lax in his training and probably there should have been greater effort made to correct bad behaviour, as Rio was obsessed with food and would do anything for it. Much to our annoyance, he would take off if he smelled something that caught his fancy, and often he would tear down the lane, across the field or into the woods to follow the scent. No amount of whistling or calling made a scrap of difference. He was possessed.
Periodically, we would get a call from our friends 4 kms away to hear he had high-tailed it to their place through the woods, perhaps thinking I was there. One of us would then drive down the road to pick him up, and without any remorse, he would jump in the car to come home.
Walking Rio on the leash or with a harness on the road was more than a challenge! He would pull so vigorously so as to almost wrench my arm out of its socket. If I let him loose, which I preferred as the leash was no fun at all, he would never stick by my side but wander ahead into the woods or wherever his nose took him. He would run towards cars and then after them. If someone seeing him on the road slowed down to let me catch up with him and avoid hitting him, he would jump up on their car to see who was driving. I know, I know, terrible. In the long run, I ended up just walking him around our home and onto the trails we shared and enjoyed with our neighbours.
When Rio was but a year, I went to visit my son Shaun and his family in British Columbia, leaving Steve and Rio behind. Steve was working on one of many projects when Rio got bored and took off, perhaps trying to find me, his stalwart walker. When Steve realized he was missing, he was nowhere to be found.
For the next four days, Steve combed the road and the hills hoping to find Rio. I came home to learn that Rio had run away and feared lost or dead. I was heartbroken. I decided to put up a few signs and a post on Facebook with Rio’s particulars, in the hopes that someone local might respond and have an inkling as to his whereabouts. I have to say, in this instance, Facebook saved the day.
Someone contacted me to say that a dog matching my description was at the SPCA de l’Outaouais in Gatineau. Steve immediately went to see if this dog was in fact our Rio.
When Steve got to the SPCA, a dog was barking incessantly, hoarse from his efforts. One of the staff members took Steve to a cage where the barking dog was standing, and sure enough, it was Rio. The staff member told Steve the dog had been barking for 4 days, and though they must have been relieved someone came to claim him, they remained skeptical about releasing him because the dog showed no signs of recognition. He was a dog possessed. In the end, they did acquiesce. It was only when Steve brought him home and he saw me, that he finally stopped barking and collapsed from exhaustion. It took a few days for Rio to get his voice back.
Did Rio learn from his misadventure? Nope. Through the years, he would periodically take off, most recently to the young folks who moved not far down the road and who enjoyed frequent summer barbecues. They “loved” Rio and were happy to give him treats! Trying to bring him home was a colossal pain as he resisted all my efforts and I had to almost drag him along.
Beyond his various quirks, Rio had many close encounters with woodland creatures, inevitable with life in the country. Whether racoons, skunks, or porcupines, it was hit or miss if he would back off and with the “hit”, I would bring him home where Steve, sometimes not so graciously, did the honours of cleaning him up or removing a few quills (near impossible with Rio constantly moving his head and in the end going to the vet).
I would say of the various dogs I have had over the years, Rio was the most challenging, but despite his misdemeanors, he had a heart of gold. He was always friendly with other dogs and humans. He would walk miles with me. He would swim with me across the lake and back. I loved our daily explorations, as did he. We were a pair.
To see him smile, and yes dogs do smile, when I told him we were going for a walk, was heartwarming. To see his ears go back when I told him, “You stay here,” was heart wrenching. Wherever I was, inside or outside the house, there was Rio. He was almost constantly by my side but for the morning ritual of watching Steve eat his toast in eager anticipation of a small bit of crust.
When my Amherstview grandsons visited the week after Rio came home, he made fast bonds and we truly believe he thought Keegen and Carter were his brothers as he welcomed them enthusiastically whenever they visited.
When our adult children visited with their own pets in tow, Rio tolerated their human and canine additions in his space, but was always glad to see them go.
When Covid hit and I had to work from home, Rio adjusted happily to the routine, leading the way to the den once breakfast was finished. If I worked longer than the usual 1 p.m. lunch break, he would nudge me and even try to climb up on my lap, indicating walk time was over due. And off we would go exploring the hills and fields around me in ways I never had done pre Covid. He was my faithful friend, and I was always happy on our meanderings.
Wandering through the woods, I always felt a comforting presence with Rio by my side, even protected. He would howl in response to a wolf under a full moon or coyotes yipping, to tell them to keep back. He was fearless, except for thunder. Thunder made him retreat to the den and push himself into the furthest corner near my desk, that or jump up on a chair or on my bed and press his body into mine.
Rio hit a milestone and turned 10 this May, equivalent to the 70-year milestone I will also hit this November. In celebration of this milestone year, I went to Scotland in early September to hike the West Highland Way. In a way somewhat prophetic as the Way was marked with many milestones.
The day before I was leaving, I walked with Rio to our favourite lake. Given his age, he was no longer swimming back and forth with me but wandered along the shore looking for me along the way to meet me at the rocks on the other side. He was in fine fettle.
Later in the afternoon, he disappeared from the deck and when I went to call him, he came staggering back from the field as if he had had a stroke or was drunk. I wondered if he had eaten too many apples, as he liked to eat the fallen fruit. He went to his outside bed, clearly out of sorts. Steve thought he might need to take him to the vet but would see how the evening unfolded, as Rio had a knack for bouncing back.
That night, Rio did not each much of his food, definitely out of sorts when he went to bed. I thought whatever the malaise, this too would pass as this was a dog who had eaten a wooden skewer with chicken on it with no ill effects, made countless forays to snack from the compost, and picked up bones and various bits of carrion with nary an ill effect.
That was not to be. In the early hours of the morning, we heard a dreadful sound coming from the guest room. Rio was in distress. I knew this was bad as we had had a similar experience with our previous dog, Wolf, prior to his death.
We wrapped him in the carpet he was lying on and took him outside. I got a blanket to put over him and we sat with him a while. The night air was cold. I continued stroking his head and then went in, thinking I needed to get some sleep as I would be flying to Scotland later that morning. I will never forget his eye following me as I opened the back door to go in. It would be the last time.
No sooner had we laid down, when I got up and said, “ I can’t sleep. I have to be with him.” Steve echoed my words and down we went. The minute we saw him, Steve said, he’s gone. I leaned in to see if there was any breath. No breath. His eye did not move. He had died. Such regret we did not just grab our coats and sit with him in his last minutes. Heartache, tears, the deep pain of loss. It all seemed unreal.
Later that morning, Steve buried Rio. I met him on the hill where all our past pets lie buried, and we wept as we said our final goodbyes. The day would see many tears as I set out sleepless and saddened on what was to be the start of a marvelous adventure.
And the adventure was marvelous.
As I began my hike on the West Highland Way, leaving Mulgavie for Drymen, I noticed many walkers with their dogs. I came to a clearing near a creek and a beautiful golden lab called Harris was fetching a stick. I had this incredible sense that Rio was with me. I could see him catching sticks and lying in the creek.
Further along at one of the milestones, I met my travelling companion Shelly at the foot of the Dumgoyne Hill. We stopped at the Beech Tree Inn and had coffee and a walk in their wildlife garden. As we got ready to leave I noticed one of the carvings as you exit to the road along which travels the Way. A life size wood carving of a young girl, pack on her back and a retriever sitting next to her. More than wishful thinking, I felt Rio was with me. He would accompany me all the way to the end. All the signs pointed to that. The walk was to be a celebration of life, his and mine.
I knew that my return home would be difficult. Not to see Rio lying on the deck where he liked to lie in the sun, or coming down the lane to greet me, would be painful. So much emotional space occupies every room in the house.
My first walk was to the cairn Steve had made for Rio. I had passed a few cairns on the West Highland Way and as if by telepathy Steve had built a cairn to pay homage to our faithful friend, on top of which he left flowers and apples with the epitaph –
“Now forever in the fields where he loved to roam. A few apples to keep him going.
He tried for 10 years chasing those deer and never even got close. Now they will certainly stop by and share an apple to say, “Game well played.”
Rio no longer runs ahead of me, but I see his shadow beside me and when I come to the corner of the lane where the path turns to the hills beyond and the lane heads towards home, I see him standing as he always did, turning back to look at me to see which way I will go, and I repeat the words I always said, “Come on Rio, let’s go home.”
Wandering Wakefield 