If I am lucky in life it’s because my parents raised me in Colorado, because I love what I do for a living and especially because I have known so many great dogs. Noble German Shepherds, loving Labradors, regal Rottweilers, ecstatic Golden Retrievers and wild-eyed Malamute mixes, they have all shared their joy with me—climbing mountains, swimming streams and huddling up against the cold—and they have taught me more about life than I could have ever learned on my own.
I can’t imagine living in a better state if you are a mountain dog, and I wonder if canines around the world don’t wag their tails at the mere mention of Colorado’s high peaks and wild air, panting like writers remembering Paris, as reverent as Catholics discussing Rome. To be a dog here is to exist in some active outdoor squirrel-chasing heaven. And to share the happy life of each of those dogs who live here is as close to heaven as some of us will ever come.
Toby #1
Every mountain boy and mountain girl should have a dog, to get dirty with, and in trouble with, and to learn all those important life-changing doggie lessons, and of course, about how lonely life can feel when your favorite fuzzy friend is gone.
My father’s first dog was a handsome German Shepherd named Toby. He was already 4-years-old by the time I was born. Like an older brother, he always slept between me and the door, bumped me back from the curb, and was ever alert to protecting us all from harm. He also got to go on the bigger backpacking adventures with my dad when I was still too young. Once, above Frisco, when Toby treed a bear, my father had to tie a rope around his neck to drag him home.
When he died, I learned like every dog owner does, how the world and its beauty and adventure and opportunity just keep spinning on. And that you can fall in love again, and how different and fresh it can seem when my dad brought home a new German Shepherd puppy and named him Sohn.
That dog died on Mt. Princeton hiking with my dad when he was only a couple years old. Whenever I drive by that mountain I roll down the window and call his name. He was followed by Pancho, an all-black shepherd who was so long it seemed as if he had an extra vertebrae and had to wear a black bandana when we went hiking so people wouldn’t think he was a bear coming around the bend.
Pancho was a gentle giant who loved to lie in fields of mountain flowers, and who would exhaust himself running back and forth along the trail to make sure everyone was still in line. I remember on an overlook on Electric Pass with him, looking over and smiling at each other, and realizing that without a word we knew exactly what was on each other’s mind. He was sleeping in my parent’s flowerbed when I last saw him, driving north to Jackson Hole to find a Toby of my own.
Toby #2
My grandfather had a cat named Toby when he was growing up. And that was the name of my roommate’s dog in Wyoming in the house with the two-story windows facing the Tetons on Sylvester Lane. Except that roommate was too drunk to feed, walk or even give that Toby a bowl of water most of the time. So after awhile, that dog was mine.
Or I was his. Dog “owners” know exactly what I mean. Because “Tobear” lived his own life, and only shared it with me when he had the time. He ran wild in Teton Valley, from the bars to the pastures to the river, out for weeks and only coming home when he was tired, or had been quilled by a porcupine. He taught me that his days belonged to him, and that the shared adventure was about what he brought into my world, and how he could help me grow.
I was always broke then, but somehow would find the money to get him out of the pound. I spent more time outdoors because every room in the house except the kitchen bored him, and he would glare at me when I watched TV on the weekends, reminding me that unless it’s football that you’re watching, then you’re just wasting time. He made friends all the way to Idaho, and packed the world into his short 10 years. I held him at the end and saw a bright red balloon rising over those Wyoming mountains, popping like silver in the sun.
Never Alone
Before he left, Toby helped us raise Bella, a beautiful black Labrador who lived to be 16. He taught her to be wild, too, and to break all the rules for pizza crusts, running in a frenzy around the house whenever we called for delivery like there was an elk carcass in the living room.
I see them all in the yellow Labrador sleeping beside me as I write, and in the photos that outnumber the pictures of people, the old collars and leashes and tennis balls in the drawer. In the trails we started in the open space near our house, where people drive from around town to share those paths, meeting other dogs and other people just like them.
We stop and talk sometimes, and watch how boldly the dogs assess each other. And I know at least a dozen of those dog’s names. I only know the names of a couple of those people though, and their faces go blank in my mind as soon as they are gone. I tell myself that I’m just out there for my sweet pup, to keep her socialized and entertained. But I know the truth, too, just how much sweeter life is when you live on doggie time.
Peter Kray is EO’s editor-at-large and co-founder of the Gear Institute (gearinstitute.com). His first novel, The God of Skiing, is due out soon.
